


The Solider, The Queen & The Spy

by queenmevesknickers



Series: Tales of the North [2]
Category: Thronebreaker: The Witcher Tales (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Continuation, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Friendship, Meve and the gang ready to do it all again, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Game(s), Romance, Thronebreaker: The Witcher Tales, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:28:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26852218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenmevesknickers/pseuds/queenmevesknickers
Summary: The Second Northern War is over, the peace accords signed; Meve, Reynard and Gascon are ready to finally come home and start living their new lives. But their battles are not over yet - for 'happily ever after' exists only in fairy tales.
Relationships: Meve (The Witcher)/Reynard Odo
Series: Tales of the North [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1958824
Comments: 28
Kudos: 49





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very excited to start posting this! I was going to wait until I'd written more of it but even though I have a solid idea of where this is going, I was just re-writing the first two chapters over and over again. So I'm going to start sharing it to force myself to move on and keep writing the rest of it, haha. 
> 
> I've done my best to stick with the canon of the Witcher games (not always easy when they all have multiple outcomes!) with one exception: Thronebreaker glosses over Anseis' existence so much that I completely forgot about him until I'd already plotted out a good portion of this story (whoops!). Given he seems to be even more underwhelming than poor Villem, however, I figured I'd do Meve a favour and just unburden her of her other disappointing son (judging from Thronebreaker, I don't think she'll even notice he's gone, lol).
> 
> Enjoy!

Meve had always considered herself to have been lucky in her marriage. There were few royal couples, she knew, who could claim much better than being able to tolerate each other, and even fewer queens whose kings gave them either affection or pleasure. But Reginald had valued his wife for more than just her pretty face, and loved her fiery spirit. Meve had found much to admire in his boldness and courage and had come to love him too, and she had truly grieved him when he’d died. But it was not love of the type the poets sang of, and Meve knew that she had never felt what it was to burn for someone, body and soul. So perhaps it was not surprising that it was not immediately clear to her why Reynard, of all people, was suddenly irritating her so much.

Meve felt badly over it, for it was not as though there was anything he had done or said to earn her ire. If anything, he had been kinder and more attentive than ever in the last few weeks, as she had stumbled through the darkest days of her grief. But as the fog of pain and guilt slowly began to lessen, she had started to be irked by it.

There had been a moment, just a couple of weeks ago: they had taken a brief pause on their march back to Aedirn, and were about to take to the road once more. Meve had stood by her horse, wondering how she could get back in the saddle again; she felt impossibly weary. As she had put her foot unenthusiastically in the stirrup, Reynard had come up quietly behind her and helped her up, so quickly and easily that no one else would have noticed him do it. It was such a thoughtful act; he had noticed how exhausted she was and aided her in such a way that none would see she had needed his help in the first place, saving her pride. But when she turned to thank him, he was already striding off to his own mount without so much as a glance back at her. Like it was nothing, like he was merely carrying out any other duty. She had clenched her jaw and ridden off, trying to ignore the lingering feeling of his hands on her waist. When he had next addressed her, she had been rather curt to him.

Since then, she felt things had changed between them. Her old friend’s company had once been easy; now she found it hard to relax when Reynard was nearby. She was always so conscious of him, noticed exactly how close he stood to her, the moments their fingers almost touched on maps and charts spread before them. Sometimes when he addressed her, those dark eyes of his staring at her so intently, she felt heat rush to her cheeks. Suddenly it angered her that it was always ‘Your Majesty’ or ‘Your Grace’, but never her name. He had always seemed content, serving at her side, but now she wondered whether her company gave him any pleasure, or if it was simply loyalty that kept him close to her.

It was an unseasonably warm afternoon, and the stuffy air in the command tent did nothing to improve Meve’s vexed spirits. It seemed she had lost the ability to concentrate, for whenever Reynard spoke, she found herself entirely unable to attend to what he was saying, and found herself merely watching his mouth instead.

She realised he had stopped speaking and was waiting for her to reply. “What?” It came out more sharply than she’d intended.

Reynard frowned in confusion and concern; Gascon raised his eyebrows at her.

“Uh, Your Grace,” Reynard began again, patiently.

“Ugh, no! Enough.” She hated how harsh she sounded, but she couldn’t bear another moment of it. “It’s this damned weather, it’s so stifling in here I can hardly think! Just go and see to – whatever needs seeing to,” she said tiredly, waving her hand at them. “I’ll try to pull myself together and we shall return to this later.”

Reynard bowed, wordlessly, and left; she could not look him in the eye. Gascon made as though to follow him, but then turned and stood before her, a challenging expression on his face.

“What is it?” she snapped. “Do have nothing to attend to?”

Gascon folded his arms. “Meve, Reynard and I – we’ve been tryin’ to be understanding. We know how hard th’ last few weeks have been on you, and we both see how hard you try to keep up a good front for th’ men – for all th’ world, for that matter.” His expression softened a little. “I’ve known loss – truly, I do have some idea of how you must feel. And when you take it out on me, I don’t care. I know it’s not personal. But you can’t keep being so harsh on Reynard. It hurts him, for all he won’t show it.” He hesitated. “He thinks – he thinks you resent him. He thinks you wish it had been him, instead.”

That shocked her. “No!” she cried, looking up at Gascon. “No, I don’t wish that! Never.” She felt cold, suddenly. “How can he think that?”

He shrugged. “It’s how he feels. _He_ thinks it should have been him. In his mind, he was th’ one who was to open th’ gate – and he was prepared to die for it, too. But Villem beat him to it, and paid th’ price instead.”

She felt her eyes sting and blinked furiously. “I would never have him feel so,” she said tightly. “I knew I might lose him – Reynard – th’ moment he volunteered to get that bloody gate open. And th’ very idea of it broke my heart. I prayed to all th’ gods that somehow, he would survive – and truly, I am glad he did. But now instead, ‘tis my own son who lies dead. And how can I be glad of that?”

Gascon sat down beside her and put an arm around her. “Oh, Meve. I think you would feel better,” he said, very gently, “if you let those tears fall for once, instead of always holding them back.”

It had been so long since anyone had simply held her like that; the sense of pure comfort was too much for her. And so, she finally broke down, sobbing, as Gascon held her close. Eventually, the tears slowed, and she found he was right – she did feel, in the smallest, slightest possible way, a little better.

“Thank you,” she said thickly, when she was able to speak once more, as she wiped her wet face on her sleeve.

“I think one day, you will find that you can be glad that Reynard is alive, even as you mourn Villem’s loss,” he said softly.

She merely nodded, heart too full for words.

He seemed about to say something, then changed his mind. He hesitated again, and then finally said: “Meve, for once, I don’t mean to pry. But I can’t help but notice. There’s another reason why you’ve been treating Reynard as your whipping boy…isn’t there?”

She stared at him in surprise. “What?”

He drew back a little and folded his arms. “I suppose you’ll threaten me with a flogging, _again_ , but come on. You’ve been starin’ at him like you’ve never seen him before these last couple o’ weeks. You jump like you’ve been stung every time you touch – and I know you weren’t listening to a word we said all afternoon ‘cause you were too busy gapin’ at him.”

Meve was taken aback – but she couldn’t deny a word of it. When Gascon put it all like that…she looked at him in horror. “D’you think he’s noticed?”

Gascon snorted. “No, he seems oblivious to it, for all it’s plain as day to me.” He shook his head. “Honestly, th’ pair o' you.”

She put her head in her hands. “He’s my oldest friend, Gascon. I can’t believe…how could I have…oh, gods. He would think me such a fool!” she said in disgust.

He rolled his eyes. “You know he’d think no such thing. He cares about you so much, Meve; he’s been trying to show it, for all you keep pushing him away.”

She looked away. “I cannot stand his pity,” she said, quietly.

Gascon said nothing for a moment. “It’s not pity he feels, Meve,” he said finally. “But like I said, I’m not th’ one you should be talkin’ to. Go and talk to Reynard. It’s th’ least he deserves.”

She left the tent in a daze. It was only when she sat on the edge of her bed, after she’d washed the rest of the tears from her face, that she began to come to terms with it. So this was what it was like, to truly be in love. This was why the old friendship was suddenly no longer enough. She had felt him stand close beside her and wished he would stand closer; felt his fingers brush hers and wished he would take her hand. Gascon’s words had seemed to imply that he thought Reynard returned her feelings, but how could he know? She had certainly never seen anything in his behaviour to make her suspect – though now a memory was stirring, the conversation she had overheard between the two men in Angren; she had not paid it much heed at the time but now…damn it, why couldn’t she remember what they had said?

She stood. Whilst the thought that her feelings might not be returned filled her with dread, worse still was not knowing either way. It was late afternoon now, and she knew where she might find him. Meve was never one for sitting and thinking when she might take action instead; so she set off now through the camp, to see if the question of her future happiness might be settled.

The mess tent was beginning to fill now, but she still spotted him easily enough in the crowd. Reynard sat at what had become his usual table, a little apart from everyone else, observing all that went on with a quiet, pensive air. Her heart leapt when she saw him, and now she recognised the feeling for what it was. Trying to ignore the growing fear that her heart was about to be broken, and her racing pulse, she made her way towards him.

Reynard stood as soon as he saw her, his expression as calm and impassive as always. Surely – surely there was nothing in his manner that indicated he felt anything more for her than friendship…

“Your Grace,” he greeted her, once she drew near. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d hoped to speak with you, Reynard, if I may.” The mess tent was not, perhaps, the most private place to talk, but the general hum of conversation would be enough to mask their words, even if anyone was bold enough to try and eavesdrop. And if the conversation did not go as hoped…well, the fact that they were not alone would be an incentive for her to keep herself together until she could escape.

“Of course,” he said easily, though she noticed a certain wariness in his gaze. He waited until she had taken a seat before sitting again himself.

She could not quite bring herself to broach the subject directly. “Th’ war nears its end…what next for Reynard Odo?”

He looked a little surprised, as though this was not the conversation he had been expecting. “Whatever you command, Your Grace,” he replied at once, serious as ever.

Meve could not help but let a sigh of frustration escape her. This was what had worried her most. Reynard was devoted and loyal to a fault. She would not put it past him to comply with her wishes purely to avoid disappointing her. How was she to know the truth of what was in his heart?

“Is something amiss, my lady?” His tone was one of concern.

Meve steeled herself. She must get to the point. “To be perfectly blunt…I’ve no wish to give you orders anymore.”

“Your Grace…would you wish me to leave? Remove me from th’ court?” For the first time, his composure faltered a little; the pain in his voice was unmistakable.

Meve dared to look up, and saw in his eyes the same heartbreak that she would feel if she discovered he didn’t care for her. At that moment, she knew – he felt as she did. Emboldened, she said: “No, Reynard. I’d wish you to stay…but I’d no longer wish to be your queen…alone. Do you…catch my meaning?”

The change in his expression was extraordinary. At first, he seemed puzzled, then disbelieving. Finally, a look of incredible happiness came over his face. “I do…Meve. I do.”

Her own feelings at that moment were indescribable. She didn’t know whether she wished to laugh, or cry, or both. She did now somewhat regret the lack of privacy around them – there was nothing she wished to do more than simply throw her arms around him. As it was, she felt too overwhelmed to speak.

Reynard was quiet for a moment too. Then he said, very casually, “Looks to be a fine night for stars, Your Grace. Would you care to join me for a walk later, perhaps?”

Meve found she could speak again and agreed readily.

It was a little after dusk when he came to her tent, and she was ready and waiting for him. The air was cooling now that the sun had set, so though she had removed her armour, she made sure to don her cloak. She noticed Reynard had done the same, and realised how long it had been since she had seen him without his heavy plate. It made her look forward to a time, not far away now, when the war would be over. She realised too, for all that he looked nervous, it had been a long time since she had seen Reynard look so happy as he did now.

Meve wished for a moment that she had something nicer to wear, that she could have had a bath, that her face…she tried not to grimace as she lifted a hand to her scarred cheek. But then Reynard smiled at her, and she put the thoughts out of her mind. They were both here, both alive, by some miracle, and that was what mattered. He raised her hand to his lips, and the courtly gesture took on a new significance as a shiver raced down her spine, when his mouth met her skin.

They strolled through the camp, in the direction of a nearby hill. When they were clear of the sentries, she slipped her hand in his and felt that same spark when his warm fingers closed around hers. It did not take them long to make the climb, which then afforded them a view of the country for miles around.

“What a difference a few months can make,” remarked Meve. “To think this was all scorched earth and ash, th’ last time we passed through. Now th’ hills are green again, th’ villages are being rebuilt. It’s a beautiful sight.”

“Very beautiful,” Reynard agreed, but when she turned, she saw he was gazing steadily at her.

Meve had been told she was beautiful by almost every man she’d ever met; the words hardly meant anything to her anymore. But somehow, it was different coming from Reynard, who had never wasted his breath on the shallow, empty compliments so often tossed about at court. And the way he was still looking at her, with that same quiet intensity, was threatening to make her blush like a girl.

“Shall we sit?” she said quickly, trying to hide how flustered she was.

It was pleasant to feel his warmth beside her in the growing darkness, as the first stars began to appear in the sky. It seemed easier, too, to say the things which were on her mind after the cover of night.

“I’m so sorry, Reynard,” she said quietly.

“For what?” he replied softly, his hand resting gently on hers.

“For my behaviour, in th’ last few weeks – how I’ve treated you. Forgive me. I was so wrapped up in my grief and – well, other feelings – I never thought of th’ hurt I might cause.”

Even in the dim light, she could see him shake his head. “Meve – you watched your son die in your arms. I can’t even begin to imagine th’ pain you must have felt – what you must still feel. As far as I’m concerned, there is nothing to forgive.” He hesitated. “In truth, Meve, I’ve often wished –”

Meve, knowing what he was about to say, gently laid a finger on his lips. “I’ve often thought about that night, Reynard. I don’t know how much sleep I’ve lost over it. What if I had chosen differently? Who then might have lived? Who then might have died? I think I’ve only just begun to understand – if I let myself dwell on th’ what-ifs and th’ might-have-beens, I shall go mad. We cannot change what happened, we can only live with it. And Reynard – no matter what – I am very glad that you are alive.”

Reynard held her gaze for a long moment, then nodded. “I am very glad to be alive, and to be here with you,” he said in a low voice.

She thought for one breathless second he was about to kiss her. But then he said, “Look, th’ stars are out now,” and laid back in the grass. So she laid down beside him, their fingers touching where the hands met between them.

The old easiness had returned to them now, she felt. Lying quietly side by side, occasionally remarking on the sky above them, which was particularly fine that night, Meve felt entirely content. She slipped her hand into his more fully, and when he gently stroked her palm with his thumb, she felt that same shiver slide down her spine. She rolled onto her side and leaned on her elbow so she could see him again. He caught her eye immediately and looked at her the same way he had before when she thought he’d kiss her, but this time she realised he was waiting for her to make the move. So she bent her head and gently brought her lips to his.

The thrill came over her when she felt the warmth of his mouth on hers told her what it was like to kiss someone she truly wanted. She pulled back for a moment, and saw that Reynard’s eyes were still closed; he looked like he was hardly daring to breathe, but there was a faint smile on his lips. So she kissed him again, a little longer and deeper, and then again, and again. Meve would have thought she’d be a little out of practice, it had been so long – but she found it came as easily as breathing. And to feel him wrap his arms around her and kiss her back was such a heady sensation she felt almost dizzy with it.

The moment could not last forever, though. The night was growing cooler, and she could not help but shiver a little in the breeze.

“Time we headed back, perhaps?” Reynard said, softly.

“Probably,” she sighed. “Though I find I have no inclination to leave whatsoever,” she added with a rueful smile.

“Me neither,” he replied, his grin so boyish she had to kiss him again. “But this is only th’ beginning, Meve. We have th’ rest of our lives ahead of us, now.”

The very idea of it thrilled her with its possibilities. “You promise?”

“I promise.” He got to his feet and offered her his hand. He pulled her up, straight into his arms, and kissed her once more. They both seemed to sense it would be their last – for now, at least – and neither seemed very willing to bring it to an end. Eventually, they broke apart, and with no small amount of reluctance, made their way back to the camp. It was no less difficult to part when Reynard bid her goodnight outside her tent, but Meve took comfort in the fact that he was right – they had plenty of time ahead of them. The world seemed such a different place than it had this morning – a little kinder, a little brighter now. She could not help smiling to herself as she lay down to sleep; for the first time in weeks, she looked forward to tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a strange feeling, Reynard thought, to be riding home after all this time; not just home as in Rivia, but to _his_ home, specifically – and stranger still to be going there with Meve and half the royal retinue in tow. But it was not an unpleasant one, by any means.

Reynard would be the first to admit that he was not the most attentive landlord; the quiet of the countryside had never appealed to him, and he’d spent very little time on his lands since he’d enlisted all those years ago. He’d always been away on one campaign or another, and preferred to be at court when he was not. But after seeing the damage and chaos the Blackclads had wrought elsewhere in the land he’d been anxious to see to his own, and told Meve he wished to stop there on their return journey from the peace talks. Curious to see where he’d grown up, Meve had asked if she might accompany him; Gascon, overhearing the conversation, had promptly invited himself. Fortunately, most of the rest of the delegation would continue straight to the capital, but Reynard quickly realised he would be making his trip with rather a larger party than he’d anticipated. So he’d hastily written to inform his household, and hoped that it did not cause too much of an uproar to announce that he was coming home with more guests than he’d had in a very long time, that the Queen would be among them, and that he was finally going to be married – and to Her Majesty, no less. Of these three things, he couldn’t be sure which would cause the most consternation.

Meve’s proposal had been characteristically unromantic. On their way to Cintra for the peace summit, the three of them had been riding at the head of the column, and discussions about coming negotiations had turned to more general talk of the future.

“And of course, once we’re married –” Meve had begun, addressing Reynard.

“Married?” Reynard had asked, eyebrows raised.

“Yes.” Meve frowned slightly. “Obviously. I thought my intentions clear enough. Do you _not_ wish to wed?”

“Certainly I do,” he replied mildly. “But I don’t recall being asked.”

Gascon appeared to have a coughing fit.

Meve pursed her lips. “I see. But, you will though, won’t you? Marry me?” she asked, a little impatiently.

He just managed to contain his laughter. “I'd be honoured, Meve.” He reached across to take her hand, and she smiled warmly at him.

Then she rounded on Gascon, who was now bent over double, wheezing. “What’s so funny?” she demanded.

“Oh, nothin’ at all, Meve,” he said, wiping tears from his eyes. “Who’d have guessed you were such a romantic? I’ll be sure to come to you for advice if I go courtin’ – who could fail to be won by such a tender manner and honeyed words?”

He had been spared Meve’s reprisals only by the very timely arrival of a Grey Rider with a message for the Queen, leaving Reynard once more to admire Gascon’s remarkable luck.

They had been blessed with good weather on their journey, and it was another fine day that saw them riding onto Reynard’s lands. He felt his concern begin to lessen as they rode past well-tended crops and largely intact villages. There were signs, here and there, of where the invader had been; some land had gone to seed, some trees had been felled, the occasional farmhouse abandoned. But compared to what he’d feared, it was a relief.

Meve looked about them admiringly. “It’s a beautiful part of th’ country, Reynard – I can’t believe I haven’t travelled through here before.”

“Very pretty,” Gascon agreed, looking impressed. “I guess I’ll have to ask you for advice on being master of a grand estate, now that I’m to be a fancy landed noble too.”

Reynard pulled a face. “I have to admit, I’m not sure I’m th’ best person to ask. I spend two weeks a year here at most, and th’ rest of th’ time I leave it to my steward. It’s always done well enough, though I don’t know I can take any credit for it.”

“What’s this? Reynard, shirking responsibilities?” Gascon assumed an expression of mock-horror.

“It’s called delegation,” Reynard retorted. “I was not unhappy here, I suppose, but I’ve no great attachment to th’ place. My mother died when I was very young, and I never got on with my father. He could not understand my dreams of knighthood and glory, and I could never have followed him into th’ life of a country squire. When I enlisted soon after he died it was partly out of spite, and I think if he’d lived to see me almost hang for treason he’d’ve thought it served me right.”

Gascon choked. “You almost _what_ –”

Meve laughed. “A sentence which was almost immediately overturned.”

Reynard raised an eyebrow. “It felt real enough whilst I was quaking in my shackles, I assure you.”

Gascon shook his head. “This is a whole new Reynard I’m discoverin’ now. Absentee landlord, rebellious son, traitor to th’ crown – what else has he done?” he demanded of Meve.

“Oh! There was the time that baron – what was his name – challenged him to a duel over his wife –” Meve broke off hastily at Reynard’s glare.

“ _Reynard_ had an affair with a _married woman?!_ ”

“Th’ old baron didn’t seem to be constrained by his marriage vows,” Reynard explained, somewhat stiffly. “Seemed unfair to me that the lady couldn’t do th’ same.”

“I’ll never look at you the same way again, Reynard.” Gascon clapped him firmly on the back. “Why, my respect for you has increased tenfold in th’ last five minutes alone!”

“If only I’d known months ago all I had to do to earn your respect was share tales of my youthful misdeeds,” Reynard replied drily. “Should you like to hear of the time I stole a cake from the kitchen, ate the whole thing and made myself ill? Or when I accidentally shattered an heirloom vase and tried to blame a ghost?”

He saw the two of them exchange a glance, and was sure he heard Meve mutter, “I’ll tell you later”, but now they were nearing the bounds of the estate proper, and he could see his steward had ridden out to meet them. So he rolled his eyes and ignored them both, as he greeted Tomas and led the party through the gates.

Reynard was surprised to find he’d never been so relieved to come home, after the relentless weeks on the road and in the negotiations. He had been used to blending into the background at these summits, just another member of Meve’s delegation. But the news it seemed had spread quickly, and he was no longer passed over as just another Rivian noble now; not even the infamous bandit-turned-noble the Queen had allied herself with could provoke more interest and speculation than the man Meve had finally chosen to marry. Reynard, therefore, found himself much more a focus of attention and gossip than he had ever been in his life – everyone there had been keen to take the measure of the man who they saw as good as being the new King of Lyria and Rivia, even if not in name.

That point, Reynard had been very clear on.

“I’ve no wish to be King,” he’d told her bluntly, in one of their rare snatched moments alone, amidst the endless rounds of talks.

Meve had raised an eyebrow at this. “I think that must make you a rarity among men, Reynard.”

“’Tis only th’ truth,” he’d shrugged. “I’ve served my crown for twenty years, Meve, and I’ve seen what a burden it can be to those who wear it. It’s different for you; you were born to it, raised for it. I’ll gladly stand by your side, support you and serve you in every way I can – but I’ve no desire to sit on a throne. Besides,” he added, putting his hands on her waist, “don’t tell me you don’t prefer ruling alone.”

“I can’t deny I’ve grown accustomed to it,” she admitted, a wry smile playing on her lips. “But I do promise I shall continue to heed th' counsel of my most trusted advisor.”

“And half th’ time, ignore me and do precisely what you wish anyway,” he’d pointed out – but Meve’s kisses were an effective distraction from any argument, so the conversation had ended there.

The morning passed quickly, as Reynard saw to the house and the books, then the three of them – and a small number of their men – went for a ride through the villages. Word had clearly spread that royalty had come to stay, for all turned out to greet them, cheering for their Queen. Meve accepted their welcome with her usual warm grace, taking the time to speak with them, thanking the children for the flowers they’d picked for her, and listening to the ealdormen’s often lengthy speeches without even a whisper of impatience creasing her brow. To see her, restored to her rightful place, in her element and doing what she did best brought a smile of quiet pride to Reynard's lips.

After their morning’s exertions, the afternoon found them down by the river, enjoying the golden sunshine for an hour or two before dinner. Reynard and Gascon were playing cards; Meve was supposedly “attending to matters of state”, but this looked rather suspiciously like her having a nap in the shade of a tree with a box of papers unopened beside her. Gascon was surveying his hand with an extremely bored, disinterested air – an attitude that Reynard had learnt long ago meant he was devising some particularly fiendish strategy – when he inquired casually: “So, Reynard – you and Meve – have you…you know?” and raised his eyebrows suggestively.

It took Reynard a moment to recover from this unexpected attack. “If you’re trying to put me off the game, Gascon, it won’t work,” he managed.

“Pshh, as though I needed to stoop to such tactics! Just my usual shameless curiosity – though if it does distract you from th’ game, so much th’ better. Well?”

Reynard sighed. With Gascon’s persistence, sometimes it was better to surrender whilst you were ahead. “No,” he muttered. “Not yet.”

“What’re you waiting for?” Gascon demanded. “Your wedding night?” He finally tossed down a card with exaggerated carelessness, which Reynard promptly Scorched, causing the former to frown.

“Shhh!” Reynard glanced over at the sleeping Meve. “No, just…th’ right time.”

“Ever th’ romantic,” scoffed Gascon, shuffling through his cards with a more determined air now.

“Well, as you might have noticed, we’ve not exactly had th’ luxury of much privacy in th’ last few weeks.”

“True enough,” conceded Gascon. “Though you’d best get used to that, if you’re to marry into royalty, friend. How long’s it been, anyway? For you?”

Reynard remained silent, this time, studying his own hand intently. Even with Gascon, there were limits.

“Two years? Three? Five?!” Gascon continued, looking more and more aghast. “Gods Reynard – all these years you’ve just been hanging after Meve? Even when you thought you never had a chance with her? There’s romantic, and then there’s just tragic.”

Reynard continued to ignore him at first, frowning at his cards. Finally, he looked up at Gascon, shrugged and played his next card. “What was th’ point, if it wasn’t her?”

Gascon only shook his head, regarding him with a highly perturbed expression.

“You’ll understand one day,” Reynard continued seriously, “when you’re in love. Just because any girl will do now…”

“Hey now!” Gascon protested indignantly. “I don’t go with just any lass! I’m very discerning, I am.”

“Oh, really now,” Reynard snorted. “What about that…woman…near th’ tavern in Sodden…”

Gascon scowled. “That does _not_ count –”

“I had to drag you away from her – you almost punched me –”

“She was very persuasive!”

“For gods’ sakes, Gascon, she had _horns_ –”

“ _Who_ had horns?” Meve said suddenly, clearly awake now and sounding extremely curious. “What on earth are you talking about?”

Reynard grinned, playing his last card. “Th’ time that Gascon almost got lured off by a succu-”

“Damn it! Fine, you win this one, Reynard,” said Gascon, hastily throwing down the rest of his hand. “Time for dinner now, surely? Come on,” he said, getting to his feet. “Enough idle gossip, I’m starving.”

Meve and Reynard exchanged a glance and burst into laughter. They gathered their things and began to walk back to the manor house. When he looked at her, he saw Meve was smiling to herself.

“How much of that conversation did you actually overhear?” he said, in an undertone.

She looked up at him, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Enough,” was all she replied, slipping her hand into his.

Dinner was a simple affair, compared to the banquets they’d enjoyed (or endured, as the case may be) at the peace summit – but none of them had yet forgotten the rather humble fare they’d consumed on their many months on the road, and ate heartily. The hour was not so late when they finished, but they all agreed to retire to bed, for they planned to resume their journey early the next morning. But Reynard couldn’t resist knocking on Meve’s door before he went to bed.

“I was hoping you’d come to say goodnight,” she said when he entered, placing her arms around his neck. “For I’ve a bone to pick with you.”

Even now, it astounded him. Could he ever have believed that she would look at him this way? The extraordinary happiness he felt every time she took his hand in hers, or when her eyes lit up when she saw him across the room was beyond anything he ever would have dared to hope for – let alone the fact that in just a couple of weeks, she would be his wife. Most days, he still expected to wake and find himself back in those interminable swamps, and realise it had all been a dream.

He raised his eyebrows, for she was smiling still. “Oh?”

“This is your room, is it not?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “It’s been a very long time since I’ve had guests here, and I can’t speak for th’ state of th’ other beds. But I wished for you to be comfortable, at least.”

“Very thoughtful of you,” she murmured, giving him a long kiss. “But I hate to think I’ve turned you out of your own bed.”

He shrugged. “It’s nothing, Meve. I think I’ve likely slept in far worse places in th’ last year than my own guest bed.”

“Perhaps, but still…” She glanced over at the bed, and then back at him, a very warm look in her eyes. “Looks like there should be room for two…if you’ll share it with me.”

He paused for a moment, looking into those deep blue eyes that were gazing up at him with so much love and desire. Reynard knew he’d have been hard-pressed to say no to her even if he’d wanted to – and he had to admit, he did not. “Very well. How could I resist such an invitation?” His response was met with another lengthy kiss.

“I’d hoped you wouldn’t,” she said when they broke apart, moving to sit by the fire. “Though I’d thought you might take more convincing,” she added, with a mischievous smile.

He took at seat beside her and put his arm about her. “Any resolve I might’ve had to do so crumbled as soon as I saw you,” he said in a low voice. She smiled faintly at the compliment, but he saw her start to raise a hand to her cheek. He caught it in his own, and kissed her deliberately on the scarred corner of her mouth. “I’m sure you tire of hearing it, Meve, but you are truly th' most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

She smiled more fully now, and pulled herself onto his lap. “You’re th’ only man I’d ever care to hear it from, Reynard Odo.” And the way she was looking at him now could only prompt further kisses.

Reynard could not but help feeling all his luck, now. He was alive, the war was won, and the most extraordinary woman on the continent chose to be here with him, in his arms. And now, here at home, so close to their journey’s end, finally felt like the right time. For the first time, they had nowhere else to be, no other responsibilities or obligations, and no fear of being interrupted. So when Meve finally said, gasping a little as he kissed his way down her neck, “Reynard – do you want to –”

His only reply was “Yes – gods, yes.”

He picked her up and carried her to the bed, and proceeded to please his Queen every way he could. He delighted in kissing every inch of her, exploring every outline of her body with his hands and mouth, and every sigh and cry of pleasure she gave was music to his ears. And afterwards, he found that holding her in his arms, still feeling the soft warmth of her skin on his, was just as sweet as every moment that had happened before. 

Reynard was a light sleeper; he was used to being woken at any hour and being required to be alert immediately. Perhaps he slept a little more soundly that night, but he still awoke instantly when he heard Meve gasping for breath. In the dark, he could see her sitting up in the bed beside him, hands pressed to her face, drawing in ragged, shallow breaths.

“Meve? What is it, what’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry to have woken you.” Her voice shook. “I’m fine, it was – it was just a dream.”

He sat up and put his arm around her. “Meve,” he said, gently but firmly.

“It was – I was dreaming of – that night –” She stopped there, unable to go on, but touched a hand to her neck, and Reynard knew instantly what had disturbed her so.

He wrapped his arms around her, careful not to hold her too tightly, not wanting her to feel smothered. His heart was too full for words. He was often troubled by thoughts of that night too; of all the times he had almost lost her, it was the one that had scared him the most. But now he realised it had had a far more profound effect on Meve than he ever would have guessed.

She curled into him, resting her head on his shoulder. “It’s not th’ first time, that I have had nightmares of it,” she whispered. “I felt so powerless, so frightened. I felt th’ very life being choked out of me, and I had no way of fighting it – no way of defending myself.” She shuddered. “Thank th’ gods, that you and Gascon came when you did.”

He rubbed her back gently, as her breathing gradually slowed. Reynard had had dreams for months, after his first battle, when he had learnt the harsh lesson that war was not glorious, and fighting on the field could be desperate and ugly. It had been years since they had troubled him, but he remembered all too well what it was like to live such horrors over and over again at night. Meve’s wounds were still fresh; it might be a long time before they began to heal.

She seemed calmer now, her breathing easier. “I do not think I wish to sleep again, yet.”

“Then I shall stay awake with you.” He leant back against the head of the bed, and Meve settled herself beside him and snuggled into his side. “Is there anything you wish to speak of?”

“No, anything will do.”

So Reynard began to talk, quietly, of inconsequential things; the improvements he’d decided on for the estate, the coming harvest, the route they would take for the rest of the journey. Meve made quiet sounds of agreement and interest at intervals until he noticed she had gone quiet – when he looked down at her, she had fallen fast asleep. Not wanting to wake her, he tipped his head back and shut his eyes. When he next opened them, a faint light was creeping through the curtains. It took him a moment to realise what had woken him, when he felt a dull ache in his arm. He turned his head, and saw Meve was still asleep on his shoulder. He kissed her forehead, and she stirred.

“Hmmm?”

“I need you to move, Meve.” He kissed her again. “My arm’s gone completely numb.”

She nodded sleepily, then sat up, stretched and yawned.

He winced as he tried to move his arm; years of swinging swords and taking heavy blows were starting to catch up with him, and this shoulder had started to give him grief even without sleeping in an awkward position. He started to rub it, but soon felt Meve’s fingers gently push his aside. He gritted his teeth as she pressed firmly, working the joint; gradually he felt the stiffness ease and sighed in relief. Reynard soon began to suspect Meve had something else on her mind, however, as her fingertips trailed down his arm and across his chest – suspicions that were confirmed when she started to kiss his neck.

“Don’t wish to go back to sleep?” he teased.

“Well, we’re both awake now…and it seems to me we should make th’ most of your secluded little haven here, before we go back to court…”

Reynard did not require any further convincing – so make the most of it they did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to give our faves a little breather after everything they've been through - and it was a good excuse to indulge in the romance ;) But the action is going to start picking up a bit from the next chapter...


	3. Chapter 3

Meve stifled yet another yawn, and did her best to keep her expression regal rather than bored, as yet another petitioner prepared to plead his case before the Queen. She’d been more than ready to put away her sword when she’d finally claimed her throne back, sick of bloodshed and battles. But it had only taken a few weeks back at court to remind her just how much of a trial some of her queenly duties could be. Hearing out supplicants, passing judgements, trying to prevent her subjects – nobles, merchants and peasants alike – from cheating each other of every last copper often made her wish for problems that could be solved with a sword rather than painstaking exercises in negotiation and diplomacy. This morning’s audiences were made even less bearable than usual by Reynard’s absence; he had ridden out with a small retinue a few days ago, to persuade a recalcitrant baron to handover some months’ worth of taxes that had not been forthcoming to the royal coffers, and she missed his calm presence just as much as his extensive knowledge of the various noble families and every region of the two kingdoms. So she swallowed her sighs, ground her teeth, and tried not to let her frustration get the better of her as her morning was consumed by wearisome neighbourly disputes, senseless family feuds that had endured so long that none could remember how they started, or squabbles between merchants that one party or the other had cheated them.

There was another reason, too, for her frayed patience and short temper: the child she was carrying, which had been making its presence well known to her in half a dozen infuriating ways for some weeks now. Meve _was_ pleased about the baby – and Reynard was utterly delighted – but she was finding being pregnant even more tiresome than she’d remembered. She’d been feeling exhausted and ill for weeks now and trying to rein in a temper that was sprung like a bear trap and tears that flowed at the drop of a hat. She’d had to drag herself out of bed every morning to be sick and had to relieve herself what felt like a dozen times a day, and she was already extremely fed up with it all. Thank the gods the nausea and fatigue were finally beginning to lift, and she was starting to feel almost like herself again. It was still a secret between her and Reynard for now, though she knew rumours were likely already circulating through the court; they’d have to make the announcement soon – it wouldn’t be long now before her growing belly betrayed the truth.

Meve snapped back to attention, as she realised that this next petitioner was not here to protest the recent reforms, or plea for a reprieve from taxes that year – she’d already agreed to too many of those, and as Gascon had pointed out, she would soon be collecting no taxes at all that year if she wasn’t careful – but to beg for aid against a scourge of a very different kind.

“Please, Yer Majesty – this beast’s been a terror to us for weeks now; at first, ‘twas th’ sheep and th’ goats, but now,” he shuddered, “Seems it’s after th’ children. There’s no lord in our parts – disappeared durin’ the war, and no sign of ‘im since; we’d try advertisin’ for a witcher, but we’ve not two coins to rub together.”

Meve frowned. “What manner of beast is it, exactly? Have any seen it?”

“Donnel did, said ‘twere a dragon –”

One of her advisors scoffed. “Nonsense. There are no dragons left in Rivia.”

Meve’s lips twitched. No, not likely to be a dragon – and a good thing, too; facing one of its kind had certainly been more than enough for a lifetime. A forktail, or a wyvern though – definitely possible, and she and her men had handily dealt with more than a few of those in the last year. And if she was not mistaken, this village was not more than a few hours ride from the castle…

“Well, ah – Rodrick, was it? – this beast shall not be allowed to wreak its misery on your village any longer. If you have no lord to handle th’ matter for you, then your Queen shall take it upon herself to deal with it – at once, in fact.”

And she swept out of the room, calling orders for her men to prepare to ride out with her as soon as all could be readied, barely concealing her smile.

Though summer was rapidly drawing to its close, the weather was mild and the roads still in good repair – it felt so good to be on horseback once more, her sword strapped to her hip. Her joy was certainly tempered by the doubt that was creeping into her mind as to the wisdom of her decision, especially given her current condition – certainly, she knew if Reynard had been there, he would have strongly urged her to consider the fact that there were any number of knights and soldiers capable of the task, and that to go herself was an act of extraordinary overkill. But she could not let herself be troubled by such thoughts for long; there was a fine breeze blowing in her face, her mare was keeping excellent pace, and some of her best men riding in her train. Slaying a beast might be more dangerous than sorting through her subjects’ troubles and strife, but it was altogether more straightforward – and a good deal more exciting.

Perhaps Meve and her men had not been trained in combat against beasts and monsters, but the experience they had gained in the last year, especially against the foul creatures of the Angren swamps, had more than prepared them for this fight. Once her arbalists had wounded the beast enough that it was forced to land, Meve and her swordsmen and pikemen were able to strike, all doing their best to dodge the quick swipes of its fierce claws and tail. It was not long before cheers went out, as one of the soldiers managed to land a fatal blow, severing the creature’s head clean off. Meve allowed herself to be distracted for a moment; an error which was swiftly repaid when the beast’s tail, flailing in its final convulsions, slammed into her shoulder with a force that made her stagger.

She didn’t feel the pain at first; the rush of the battle was still pulsing through her veins. The shock was great enough, though, that it was all she could do to remain standing as her men crowded around her in panic.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she said, though, to her own ears, her voice sounded strangely far away. But then she tried to raise her arm and felt such a surge of white-hot pain that she felt she was either going to faint, or vomit, or both. Immediately, she felt at least three pair of hands reach out to steady her, and someone was already shouting to send for a cart.

Meve’s men managed to haul their wounded queen back to the castle with incredible speed, which she would have praised had she not had her jaw clenched tightly against both pain and nausea the whole bumpy way home. And once returned, it was not long before she found herself put to bed and her arm in a sling, her pain somewhat dulled by the exceptionally foul concoction she’d been given to drink. She wished Isbel were here to speed up the healing process. The sorceress was away from court travelling, however, and not expected back for another week or two, and to mend a broken bone instantly was beyond the skill of the castle healers – though at least they’d been able to tell her that the baby seemed to be fine. She’d demanded to be left in peace, so now she was alone, feeling very sorry for herself, and trying desperately to think how she was going to explain it to Reynard.

“Yer Grace!” One of her young pages put his head around the door, looking terrified. “It’s ‘is lordship, Count Odo –” he squeaked, then quickly sidled away.

She soon understood the reason for the poor lad’s demeanour as Reynard stormed in, stony-faced, his mouth set in a grim line.

“Reynard!” she said, feeling more than a little guilty. “I didn’t think you’d return till tomorrow –”

“Are you well, Meve?” he asked in a quiet voice, cutting her off, though his expression softened momentarily with concern. “And the baby?”

“Both well enough.” She tried not to wince as she pushed herself a little more upright. “Broke my collarbone, apparently. As you can see –”

“Yes, I can see very well,” he replied sharply. “I heard all about what happened this afternoon. What on _earth_ were you thinking?”

“What was I thinking?” Her guilt evaporated, and she felt her ire begin to rise. “I thought to aid my subjects, to serve them, as I have sworn to.”

“And of course, this matter required your immediate personal attention – did th’ thought even enter your head that perhaps, _perhaps_ , you did not need to place yourself in harm’s way on this occasion? That th’ men could very likely have managed perfectly well without you?”

Her hands balled into fists; how dare he come in here and scold her like she was a naughty child. She was too angry to stay in bed – she got up, ignoring the jolt of pain that made her stomach turn, and stood to face him. “Oh, so I should send my men out, whilst I hide in my castle, risking their lives and not my own?”

Reynard exhaled slowly. “May I remind you,” he said, in a very low voice. “That it is not _just_ your own life? That it is two lives you would risk now?”

Her fury was white-hot now. “Do you think that this gives you th’ right to command me?” she hissed, pointing at her belly. “I am still your Queen, damn it, Reynard. Need I remind _you_ who wears the crown here?” She didn’t care that she was yelling now.

“As if I could ever forget!” he snapped, raising his voice for the first time. Reynard had a temper, she knew, though he kept it so tightly controlled that it rarely showed. But she saw the anger flashing in his eyes now, and realised he’d been pushed too far. He took a deep breath, and then said, deathly quiet: “I’ve no wish to continue this discussion now. I shall see you in th’ morning.” And he turned and left.

She gaped a little as she watched him leave; Reynard had his own rooms adjoining hers, but he’d never slept apart from her, even for a night, since they were married. She hesitated for a moment, torn – then slammed the door shut behind him.

Try as she might, Meve could not sleep. She told herself it was the ache in her shoulder, which still throbbed punishingly, but it was a very different pain that wounded her every time she looked over at the empty bed beside her. Her anger was cooling now; she felt terribly guilty, knowing that he was right – she’d known herself, even before she set out, that it was a needless risk to take. And yet she’d gone anyway – if she was honest, because she was bored – and now she had a broken bone and wounded pride to serve her right. Her heart ached, as she thought of how quick she’d been to shout him down. She could not bear it any longer. Pride be damned, she had to go to him.

She found him sitting by the fire, his expression so deeply troubled that any last vestiges of resentment she might have had melted away at once. When he looked up at her, she saw the relief in his expression as he stood – yet she could also see the slight hesitation, the wariness on his face, and knew that he was still hurt.

Humility did not come easily to Meve, nor did apologies, but she took a breath and made herself say the words. “Reynard – I’m sorry. Sorrier than I can say. You were right to point out how foolish I’d been to get myself hurt; I was just too stubborn to admit it. I shouldn’t have lost my temper with you.”

“I’m sorry too,” he said quietly. “I should have known I was too upset to have such a conversation with you tonight – it wasn’t my intention to berate you.”

“As much as I appreciate th’ apology, dearest, I think we both know I was far more in th’ wrong than you were.” She raised an eyebrow.

He sighed. “Meve…d’you know how many times I’ve had to watch you risk life and limb over th’ years? It’s always filled me with pride to see you first into th’ fray, but gods – sometimes it scares me, too. Leading th’ charge into battle against a foe, that I can reconcile myself to – but to put yourself in harm’s way over something so trivial –”

“Trivial? A poor village’s livestock plundered, its children attacked – you would call that trivial?” She fought to keep her voice level as her temper rose again, not wanting to start another shouting match.

“A poor choice of words,” Reynard said quickly. “But you know what I meant. And I know you know I’m right. Meve – your sense of justice, your bravery and courage are some of th’ things I love most about you – I would never wish that to change. Just – please, please I beg you to be more careful.”

She nodded grudgingly, and he held out his arms to her. She took a few steps towards him, but stopped short. “I fear I am not done apologising quite yet. I know I said I’d no wish to give you orders anymore – and yet in our very first fight, I tried to use my crown against you to win th’ argument.”

Reynard’s lips twitched slightly. “I wasn’t going to bring that up tonight.”

She shook her head. “No, I’d much rather we had it all out now.”

“Very well. Meve, I’ve been your subject for a long time, and I’m perfectly content to remain so. I was th’ one who said I’d no wish to wear a crown or sit on a throne, and I meant it. Truly, it doesn’t bother me to have you command me still, at court, or in council, or on th’ field. But when we’re alone – I want to feel more like your husband than your subject. I’d like to be able to disagree with you, argue if we must, without being overruled.”

She had to look away. “Of course – you shouldn’t even have to ask it of me. You have every right to argue with me – I’ll try not to act so much like a spoilt child next time, I promise.” She sighed. “I’m sorry if I’ve been a poor wife to you, my love.”

Reynard rolled his eyes at that. “Don’t be ridiculous, Meve – you’re th’ only wife I’ve ever wanted, and you make me immeasurably happy every day. It’s been an adjustment for both of us – and I hope it will all come more naturally with time. Now, please come over here at once and let me hold you.”

She willingly stepped forward into his embrace. He wrapped his arms around her gently, clearly mindful of her injury. Meve, however, did not hold back, so relieved was she to be back in his arms; she pulled him to her as tightly as she could with her good arm, until she heard him wince slightly and catch his breath. She looked up and found this time, it was Reynard who looked guilty.

“Care to explain?” she said, archly, releasing him from her grip.

He sighed and sat down. “It seemed Baron Redmond decided to prepare a little welcome party for us at his keep.”

“You were ambushed?”

“Not exactly…” said Reynard, evasively. “We knew from th’ scouts’ reports he’d armed all his men to the teeth…”

Meve put her good arm on her hip. “So of course you went to straight th’ nearest garrison, for reinforcements.”

“Uh…” he hesitated. “I had good men with me, Meve – I thought we could handle them without any difficulty. And we did!” he added quickly, seeing her expression. “We overcame them without any losses. Just, uh…I happened to catch a quarrel. At rather close range. It didn’t pierce my plate but…it did crack a couple of ribs,” he finally admitted.

Meve pursed her lips, trying to control the alarm she felt. She sat down beside him. “Seems we might need to reopen the subject of unnecessary risk-taking, after all.” She fought to keep her voice steady. “When were you going to tell me about this, exactly?”

“Well – I was going to tell you when I saw you tonight, but I was a little distracted when I came home to th’ news you’d been injured by a forktail,” he retorted.

“Don’t change th’ subject, Reynard – seems like a clear case of th’ pot calling th’ kettle black to me.” She tried to cross her arms and had to bite back a hiss at the pain. “What I don’t understand is why – it’s rare to see you not erring on th’ side of caution.”

It was a moment before he replied. “In truth…I balked at th’ idea of delay. I wanted to come back home to you as soon as I could.” The look he gave her as he spoke was sufficient to melt away any remaining anger she might have had.

She rolled her eyes. “You know I’d much rather have you home a day later and in one piece, than –” she broke off, unwilling to finish the thought. She took his hand in hers. “What a pair we are,” she said, with a rueful smile. “What are we going to do with each other, hm?”

“Perhaps we can come to an agreement?” he said, returning her smile. “Meve, we’ve known each other too long to pretend that either of us would ever be content to hang up our swords and command our forces from a distance. And if that means we die in battle, in defence of our land and our people – I can live with that. But we could both promise to refrain from risking our necks for anything less worthy.” He gently laid a hand on her belly. “Especially seeing as soon enough, we’ll have our child to think of, too”

Meve kissed him deeply.

“Are we agreed, then?” Reynard asked, when they parted.

“Agreed.” She nodded, then yawned. “Will you come back to bed with me?”

Reynard yawned too. “I can’t think of anything I’d like more. Gods, it’s been a long day.”

Both slept deeply and well that night, despite their injuries, knowing that their beloved was safe in the bed beside them.

Their new agreement, however, was put to the test much earlier than either would have liked. It was a cool autumn day, just a few weeks later, that news came from the capital that chilled and shocked the castle’s inhabitants. As soon as he heard the reports, Reynard rushed to find Meve, knowing exactly how she would react. She was already donning her armour, including the new breastplate she’d just had made to accommodate her changing body. She looked up as soon as he entered the room; her eyes were already flooded with tears of rage and grief, her fingers shook as she fastened on her plate.

“Reynard – I’m sorry – but I must go – I _must_ go myself,” she began, her voice shaking with barely contained emotion. “They said it’s a bloodbath in th’ market square – riots erupted out of nowhere – th’ people turning on each other, human against non-human – gods fucking know what th’ City Garrison is doing, but whatever it is, it’s not working –” Her voice cracked. “Gods dammit, Reynard, I must go. You cannot stop me.”

It was all there in her eyes – the fear, the pain, the anger at the cruelty and horror of what people could do to one another, given just half a chance. But there she stood ready anyway, bold, defiant, ever willing to risk everything for her people. And gods, he loved her for it, even as the familiar worry gripped his heart.

“I know very well I couldn’t, even if I wished to – but I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said quietly. “I know – I know it’s what you must do. Just – will you promise me one thing? Will you promise that we’ll try to stay together? We’re about to ride into th’ middle of a riot, into a bloodthirsty mob – Meve, I’ll go mad with worry if you’re not by my side.”

She nodded. “Truth be told, Reynard – I dread what will we find when we ride into the city. Knowing you’ll be with me makes th’ thought of what we might see – what we may have to do to restore th’ peace – slightly more bearable.”

They embraced briefly – neither wanted to linger, knowing the slaughter that was happening even now in the city. Their hearts were as heavy as lead as they set out towards the city, but at least they had the comfort of turning to each other, and knowing that whatever horrors they might be about to face – at least they would face them together.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been REALLY looking forward to posting this chapter for a while now...after much shameful sidelining on my part, it's high time for everyone's favourite bandit to have some time in the spotlight!
> 
> I know I could be headed into some controversial territory here...but this chapter does contain my answer to the eternal question, What is Under Gascon's Hat. If you have your own headcanon, PLEASE comment with your theory - I am desperate to know what everyone else thinks he's hiding under there ;)

If anyone had tried to tell Gascon two years ago that he would one day find himself residing at court, with lands and a title to his name, not only a loyal subject of the queen but one of her trusted advisors and close friends to boot, he’d have laughed in their face. And yet here he was – his well-worn gambeson traded for a velvet doublet and a ruff in place of his favourite cap. Could he honestly say he preferred them? Perhaps not. But would he try his best for Meve’s sake? Absolutely.

It had been something of a novelty at first – to have fine rooms in the castle, to have servants and courtiers bowing to him, even if it was with wide-eyed stares. But he had quickly grown weary of it. He was bored by it – the endless obsession with rank and power, the same tired scandals, the witless games they played. He felt the antipathy of the nobles whenever he sat in council; they disliked his youth, his dubious past, his upstart rise to power – and, though none were so indelicate as to reference it, his traitorous family. The hours would drag on, as another ancient fossil of a peer would speak at length without managing to say anything of importance. And if he cracked a joke, Reynard might cough, Meve might purse her lips to hide a smile, but the rest of the room would remain in stony silence.

One day, Meve took him aside.

“Gascon. For th’ last time, we are at court now. You have to address me by my title, especially in front of th’ Council.”

“Worried I’ll give one of those old goats a heart attack? Allow me to assure you, Meve, that was indeed my aim. I’ve been tryin’ to knock off old Lord Percival for weeks now…”

“No, Gascon,” she said crossly, folding her arms. “I worry that they will resent you.”

“More than they already do, you mean?” he muttered.

Meve ignored him. “Gascon,” she sighed. “I value your judgement, and so I need for them to listen to you, and not dismiss you out of hand. Make more of an effort. Earn their respect.”

There were many things he wished to say, not the least of which was that he thought many of them would never learn to respect a Brossard, especially one who’d spent much of his life thus far robbing their kind at knifepoint on the high road. But Meve had enough on her plate at the moment, between judging who in her court to pardon for their betrayals, and who to punish, not to mention the dire state of the treasury. He couldn’t bring himself to argue with her.

“All right, fine. I’ll try to be more proper, Your Most Glorious and Gracious Majesty.” He gave an exaggerated bow. That made her laugh, at least. So from then on, he sat through the council sessions, as po-faced as the rest of them, holding his tongue.

He tried escaping to the country for a while. It was refreshing, at first, to be away from the stuffy nobles and the strict, unending protocols of the court. Riding through his new lands, speaking to the villagers and farmers who tended the fields gave him something to do, a sense of responsibility. But that too, could only last so long; he knew next to nothing of farming, and after a few weeks, he began to find himself lonely. Many of the Strays had enlisted in the army, after the war, and most of the rest had quietly melted away, presumably to continue their banditry in other parts of the realm. A few had chosen to stay with him, but convincing them that working the estate was a more worthwhile endeavour than the relatively easy spoils that could be had on the high road was not proving particularly fruitful. And who could blame them? More than once, he found himself sitting on his own, contemplating his old favourite bow and cloak, wishing something would _happen_.

He’d always had something to fight for, before – his very survival, as a boy, then his twin goals of fortune and revenge, before he’d developed the conscience and rather inconvenient sense of loyalty that had swayed him to Meve’s cause. Now he had only peace and prosperity, and they were beginning to feel like more of a curse than a blessing every day.

Gascon carried on in this manner for a few months, trading the oppressive confines of court for the crushing solitude of his estates, wondering which would drive him mad first. It was different for Meve and Reynard: they’d spent their whole lives at court, more or less; they thrived there, and he envied them both their duties and their sense of purpose. He felt his existence was more and more aimless by the day, and the thought of bolting from it all on horseback in the dead of night was becoming more and more appealing. He thought he’d managed to keep his troubles to himself, but as he soon discovered, they had not gone unnoticed.

“Hey ho, Mevie! Bloody hell, you’re looking enormous…ly…beautiful. Oh gods, don’t get up!” He swooped in to kiss her on the cheek.

Playfully, she swatted him away. “Believe me, Gascon, I wasn’t going to,” she laughed, then groaned she pulled herself into a more upright position on the couch where she’d been lying by the fire. “What on earth are you doing here?”

He took a seat on the floor beside her. “Why, I heard a rumour you were taking a holiday from your queenly duties, and I swore I wouldn’t believe it till I saw it.”

Her expression turned a little sour. “Ha. A forced holiday, maybe. ‘Twas a conspiracy, led by Reynard, and I found I had little choice in th’ matter,” she said darkly.

Gascon gave her an extremely sceptical look. “You’re tellin’ me that you still feel up to charging about as usual, bossing all those pig-headed nobles and courtiers around?”

“It’s the principle of it!” she insisted, but she a reluctant smile was fighting its way onto her lips. “But you’re right. I just wish it were over with already,” she sighed, resting her hands on her belly. “Gods, I never thought I’d have to go through this again. But love makes fools of us all, I suppose.” She sighed again and grimaced as she rearranged the cushions behind her back. “Enough of my gripes though – how have you been? And where on earth did these curls come from?” she asked, ruffling his hair.

He grinned. He’d kept his hair cropped quite close for years, in an effort to look older and harder than he was, but he’d let it grow out in the last few months, and the unruly curls he’d had as a boy had made a reappearance. “Well, that’s what happens when you don’t cut your hair, Meve – it grows. Astonishing, I know.”

“Oh, very funny. They do suit you, though. But truly, how are you?”

He hesitated for the barest moment. “Never better! Been busy on th’ estates, preparin’ for th’ spring, tendin’ to my flocks – I could hardly have torn myself away if it weren’t for th’ sake of my favourite Queen.”

“You’re not usually such a terrible liar, Gascon.” Meve’s expression was torn between amusement and concern. “Speak to me honestly. You’ve been miserable, haven’t you?”

He was momentarily stunned into silence. “That’s, uh – that’s unusually perceptive of you, Meve.”

She snorted. “Well, I have to admit, Reynard pointed it out first. But since he did, I’ve seen how unhappy you’ve been looking, and I’m sorry I haven’t had th’ chance to speak to you of it sooner.”

“No, Meve, it’s fine,” he said quickly. “Just been an adjustment, that’s all. It’ll take some time, I expect.” He guiltily pushed his thoughts of a moonlight flit out of his mind.

She shook her head. “I should have realised, what it would be like for you.” She pulled a face. “I should have known how th’ court would react to you, and I should’ve known you’d need something more exciting than a clutch of lands to occupy your time. But…I’ve had an idea, which I hope will be of interest to you.”

He looked up at her, immensely curious. “What kind of idea?”

“I’ve a job that needs doing, that I can think of no better man for. But I must warn you – it’ll often take you away from your lands and th’ court, you’ll likely spend most of your time on th’ road, and I fear it requires some, uh, flexibility of morals – and it will almost certainly be dangerous.”

“Oh, Meve,” he said, feeling the first sparks of excitement he’d felt in a long time. “You had me at dangerous. Whatever it is, I’ll do it.”

Gascon had never really turned his mind to spying before, but he found he took to it like a duck to water. After all, it was not so different from banditry – but now the prize was information, rather than coin. Meve had permitted him to completely overhaul the current intelligence service, which had been floundering somewhat since his predecessor had been executed as a traitor to the Blackclads. It was an enormous amount of work, to build an entire spy network from scratch, but he could not pretend he wasn’t glad of it. Finding informants, selecting new recruits kept him occupied from dawn till dusk. He delighted in leaning into the role he’d created for himself at court; now he was happy to have them think the worst of him, think him a rogue and an upstart – they’d never guess what he was really up to. And it gave him the chance to travel across the kingdom, setting up his network of messengers and informers; the freedom to roam for weeks at a time, with no damned protocols or interminable banquets – just him, his men and the task at hand.

He’d found there were a few kinds of establishments that were particularly rich sources of tips and information. Taverns and gambling dens, the more dubious the better – and best of all, the brothels and whorehouses, where foolish men often opened their lips as often as their purses, and said more than they should to the pretty girls they wanted to impress. Gascon could hardly claim to be a connoisseur of brothels; he preferred to charm his way into someone’s bed than pay for the privilege. But there was no denying that _The Pearl of Rivia_ was a cut above the average; it wasn’t just anyone who could afford a night of pleasure here.

“Ah, Greta, Libby, if it ain’t my best girls,” he greeted a pretty redhead and a charming brunette.

“Oh, come off it, Gascon, we know you’re not here to see us,” said the former, pouting playfully.

“Too right, lasses, I’m afraid. I hate to break your hearts, but you know I’m saving myself for Ewert.” He blew a kiss to the burly doorman, whose stony and impassive expression failed to move an inch.

“She’s in t’other room,” said Libby, taking him by the arm. “Come, we’ll find ‘er for you.”

 _The Pearl_ might cater to a wealthier clientele than most, but that didn’t make it the domain of the elite. You were just as likely to meet one of the city’s gang leaders, or a notorious brigand fresh from a profitable haul as you were a wealthy merchant or a nobleman. Which made it an establishment particularly suited to Gascon’s needs; all kinds, travellers and locals alike passed through here for a night of leisure, and all too often let their guard down and spilt secrets.

She was in the other room, all right, looking devastating as always, in a sheer ivory gown that contrasted wonderfully with her long dark hair. Gascon allowed himself a glance of appreciation – it was all part of the act, of course.

“Got a kiss for me, Dani?” he called out in greeting.

Danica turned to face him and gave him one of her smooth-as-cream smiles. The owner of _The Pearl_ was not exactly what he’d imagined when he’d first called in; younger than he’d expected, and as lively and lovely as any of the lasses who worked for her. Rather bluntly, he’d told her so.

“Oh really, now?” she’d replied, as she looked him up and down with an expression of cool appraisal. “Well, you don’t look terribly much like a duke to me, either.”

It was a fair point, he had to admit – and they’d gotten on tremendously well ever since.

She gracefully crossed the room and took him by the hand. “Play your cards right, and it’ll be more than a kiss,” she purred, as she led him upstairs.

He needn’t come himself to _The Pearl_ ; to most other places he sent one of his lads or lasses, to collect the various tidbits that washed in over the week. But there was something he liked about this world; away from the court’s obsession with titles and birth and etiquette, the only things that mattered here were how much coin you had, and how quick you were with a blade. It wasn’t quite a clandestine forest camp, with a band of comrades and a pile of recently stolen loot – but he still felt a hell of a lot more at home here than he did in the castle.

“All right, what have you got for me?” he asked once they were alone, taking a seat on the thickly cushioned chaise by the fire.

“Nothing much this week, I’m afraid,” she replied, pulling on a rich but well-worn velvet robe, her manner now utterly business-like. “One or two interesting things, but the rest is just rubbish.”

“Oh well, let’s hear it anyway,” he sat back and rubbed his hands together.

“Wine?” She held up a bottle.

“Why not? Though I didn’t think you and th’ girls drank on th’ job.”

“Well, there have to be some perks to being th’ boss,” she replied, with a wicked smile, and poured them both a glass. “Now to business – we had some merchants, from Toussaint, apparently, in th’ other night.”

“Oh?” Danica seemed to have a knack for picking up on those faintly out of the ordinary things that he himself was just learning to pay attention to; it was rare that something she thought was noteworthy failed to carry some significance.

“Indeed. Flawless accents, right clothes, piles of money and not a word out of place. They were just as Toussaint merchants should be, in fact.”

He leaned forward, brow raised. “Then why am I suspectin’ they were, in fact, _not_ merchants from Toussaint?”

She held her wine glass up to the firelight and gave it a delicate swirl. “They were telling me about some of the vintages they’re importing to Rivia – they happened to mention that this year was a particularly good year for Saint-Folet.”

“What’s wrong with th’ Saint-Folet?”

She nodded at his glass. “Try it.”

Gascon took a sip, then immediately spat it back into the glass. “Not th’ best drop I’ve sampled out o’ Toussaint, that’s for sure.”

“It was _supposed_ to be a good year for th’ Saint-Folet. The early results were very encouraging, I hear. A loyal patron from th’ south was kind enough to bring us a selection of this year’s most promising wines a few weeks ago, including this one. Something clearly went awry in between th’ barrelling and bottling, however, and th’ estate has quietly pulled it all from th’ market. It’s not widely known yet, I believe – but something a pair of Toussaint wine merchants should know, surely?”

He gave a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be damned. Have they been back?”

She nodded. “One of them seems to have taken a fancy to Greta. If they’re back again, I’ll try and find out where they’ve been travelling here.”

“Good. Be careful though – they can’t know –”

She rolled her eyes. “I know, Gascon, I know. I promise they won’t suspect a thing. Now, would you like a glass of wine that’s actually drinkable while I tell you th’ rest?”

They lingered for a while, over the wine and sillier gossip that had reached the ears of The Pearl’s proprietress that week. He probably stayed longer than he needed to, but if his excuse for visiting so often was enjoying the company of the lovely Danica, he may as well make it convincing.

“This’ll be th’ last you see o’ me for a little while,” he said as he went to leave, a trifle reluctantly. “I’ll be on th’ road for a month or two at least – I’ll send Torren in my place once or twice, but if there’s anything you think is vital –”

“I _know_. I’ll make sure it gets to you personally. Wait –” She quickly ran her fingers through his hair and undid the top couple of buttons on his doublet. “That’s better. Wouldn’t want anyone to think you were handing over good coin just to talk to a lass.”

“Ever careful of my reputation.” He grinned. “A pleasure as always.”

“All mine,” she replied, with a rare warm smile.

The weeks on the road, flitting through the countryside, villages and towns, riding by night and reconnoitring by day; gods, how he’d missed the freedom of it. How’d he ever thought he could settle down on his estates, wintering at court and enduring the monotony of the council and the petty power plays, day after day? The time away made it easier to return, as well – he resented the time at court less, and as well as being happy to see Meve and Reynard, he took pride in being able once more to bring something of value to their conferences, and how his hard work was already bearing fruit.

Gascon had been on the road for several weeks, when one of his lads came to bring him a letter, wearing an expression of barely contained mirth.

“Message for you, boss. Came through t’usual channels but…well, we thought it looked… _personal_.”

Gascon raised an eyebrow. Certainly, the missive did not look like the kinds of secret communiques and tip-offs they normally received. Written on silky, fine paper, the sheet was covered in a looping, feminine hand – and…was that…perfume? He glanced at the signature, and his suspicions were confirmed. Danica.

“We _did_ check it for a coded message, but we couldn’t make head nor tail of it. Think your lass might be a bit cracked in th’ head, boss.” He was barely containing his sniggering now.

“She’s not my lass –” Gascon bit off the retort. “Actually, it doesn’t matter. Off you go. Leave this with me.” He was quick to shut the door behind the still-giggling lad.

Gascon gave the letter another thoughtful look as he sat down at the table and smoothed out the page. He let out a snort of laughter as he began to read line after line of treacly epithets and violent declarations of passion; if he hadn’t been perfectly certain that she meant not a word of it, he’d have been thoroughly alarmed. As amused as he was, however, it was clear enough to him that there _was_ a message hidden here somewhere. For one, he didn’t think she was the type to call anyone her “precious flower”, least of all him. He admired the effort, however, for as his own lads had just proven, it would have been easy to dismiss it as a love-sick girl’s romantic drivel. If they’d bothered to look past the perfume and the sickly-sweet endearments, they might have noticed the slight awkwardness of the phrasing, the deliberate feeling of the words. It wasn’t a code, per se, he thought. More likely a pattern in the sentences. He retrieved a pen and paper and scanned the lines once more.

He tried pulling out various words here and there – words at the beginning of each line, after punctuation, at the beginning of a sentence. He went through the letter several times, testing the various possible permutations until at last, he had something that at least resembled coherence.

_Old oak’s acorn grown in its image, forgotten, yet now shadows gather to it._

Gascon contemplated the message. He’d cracked her cipher, disguised as a love-letter, and been left with a riddle. He smiled to himself. A game within a game within a game. He had no doubt she’d delighted in constructing the layers of the puzzle, but knew she wouldn’t have bothered unless it had been important.

“Now let’s see,” he muttered to himself. “Shadows – th’ Blackclads, maybe? Oak…stands for royalty…but what’s that got to do with…” He trailed off, eyes widening as the psieces fell in the place. “Bloody hell.” He immediately put the letter into the fire, watching it closely until the whole thing was fine ash.

Reynard. He had to speak to Reynard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm excited to be updating this story again! I've now got a much better idea of the structure in my head - after the next two chapters, we'll be reaching a bit of a turning point in the story, so my plan is to post up to there and then take another break to get cracking on the next section. Chapter 5 is already finished, barring some edits, so expect that to appear in the not-too-distant future!
> 
> I did actually write the letter that Gascon receives but ultimately cut it as the chapter was getting too long. I may yet post it on Tumblr though for a lol ;)


	5. Chapter 5

The countryside was lush and green, the epitome of Lyria in all its late-spring perfection, and though dusk was falling, the air was still sweet and mild. Meve, however, was not in the mood to appreciate any of this; she was far too busy fuming, inwardly cursing her husband. Not Reynard, of course – no, it was Reginald who consumed her thoughts and drew her ire now, and though she knew there was little point in raging at a man who’d been dead for ten years, she couldn’t help but be frustrated at the predicament he’d left them in.

The day had begun promisingly enough, with a surprise visit from Gascon, who had been away for some weeks.

“Uh – which one’s which, again?” asked Gascon, peering down at the infant in his arms. “I need to know which one’s my future queen.”

“You’re holding her – Reynard has Odette. Though I hope Sybella won’t be queen for a _few_ years yet, at least,” she added with a frown.

“Well, doesn’t hurt to start getting in her good books now – I’m hoping she’ll be very fond of her Uncle Gascon.” His expression became one of alarm when the baby started crying, and he hurriedly passed her back to Meve. “Still can’t believe it, Meve – th’ council must be thrilled at th’ line of succession being so thoroughly female, now,” he said with a grin.

She rolled her eyes. “Well, they’d best get used to it, is all I can say. No more childbearing for me, thank you – th’ peers can go plough themselves.”

“How d’you feel about that, Reynard?” said Gascon, turning to where he sat, utterly absorbed in the other tiny princess in his arms.

“Hm? Oh no, I quite agree – how could I not be content with two beautiful daughters? Besides, I’m in no rush to have any more of my fingers broken, I can assure you – it’s been three months and I still can’t hold my sword properly…” he grumbled.

Meve frowned. “How many times need I apologise for that? You know very well I didn’t do it on purpose. If you’ll kindly recall what I was doing at the time –”

Gascon covered his ears. “Meve, I beg you, I’d rather not hear any more details.”

She snorted. “High time we came to th’ point, anyway.” She laid the now sleeping heir to the throne in her crib and walked through to the other room, and Reynard and Gascon followed suit. “Gascon, you hinted you might be away for months before you left, and yet here you are just a few weeks later. I can’t imagine it’s glad tidings that have brought you back so urgently.”

“You’re not wrong, Meve,” he replied with a grimace. “I received a tip a few weeks ago which suggested that Imperial spies were sniffing around Lyria again – but what they were up to, we didn’t know. Well, now I’ve a pretty good idea – though I don’t like it one bit.”

“And?” she demanded, frowning. “What are they after?”

Gascon sighed. “No point tryin’ to be delicate about it, I s’pose, given th’ circumstances.” He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Reynard – what can you tell me about Reginald’s bastards?”

Reynard immediately cast an uneasy glance at Meve. She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please, don’t worry about offending my sensibilities. Did you really think any of you pulled the wool over my eyes? I knew perfectly well what th’ old sod was up to. There were two, weren’t there?”

Reynard coughed. “Four. That I know of.”

This statement caused her to raise her eyebrows. “That you _know_ of –!”

“I’m fairly certain there were only four,” Reynard said quickly. “Th’ two you know of, Meve, were th’ ones born to ladies of th’ court. They’ve both since died: the Lady Loreta in childbirth – her infant son died, too – and Lord Elfred, who was killed in a riding accident as a boy. But there were two others he had by women of common birth, a fact which is far less commonly known. One served in our force in the last war, Corporal Perrin –”

“Oh! I remember him. We lost him in th’ avalanche in Mahakam,” she said, troubled. “I had no idea.”

“He kept it to himself, generally – he wished to be judged on his own merit, not on who his father was…th’ last of them was born to a woman in Lyria.”

“In Lyria.” Meve’s eyes narrowed. “How old is this child, exactly?”

Reynard winced. “The lad’d be about eighteen summers now, I’d say.”

“Charming.” Meve snorted. “So that’s th’ truth behind all those ‘hunting trips’ he disappeared on whilst I was bearing his son, is it?”

“I swear I had no involvement in those particular hunting trips, Meve –”

“Perhaps we can save th’ misty-eyed reminiscing for another time,” interjected Gascon. “Thank you, Reynard. I believe th’ Blackclads have been payin’ visits to this Lyrian lad.”

“Why? What could they possibly want from him?” asked Reynard, brow furrowed with worry.

Gascon spread his hands. “Your guess is as good as mine, friend. I’d speculate, however – Nilfgaard’s already tried to supplant you with a puppet king once, Meve. Perhaps they seek to repeat th’ gambit; but this time with a puppet who likely feels significantly less loyalty towards you than your own flesh and blood.”

This thought was so sobering that the three of them sat in silence for a long moment.

Meve spoke first. “You suppose they intend to invade again?” Her hands clenched into fists. “To wage war on us once more – gods damn it, so soon?”

Gascon rubbed his chin. “There are no definite signs, as yet. But there are whispers – no doubt they won’t forget such a defeat as they suffered too quickly, but th’ fact is – th’ North still licks its wounds, whilst th’ strength o’ th’ Empire ever increases. We must assume they will be back – sooner or later. And I fear it’s likely to be sooner.”

Meve swallowed hard and looked at her hands. They’d worked so hard in the time since they’d returned to rebuild, but it was slow going. Their victory in the war was one thing, but their losses had been devastating. She’d counted on the peace lasting a few more years, at least – there were swathes of the country that had yet to recover, fields yet unploughed, villages still in ruins. They were still nowhere near collecting the taxes they had been before the war; the treasury remained strained. And they’d lost so many fighting men – there were barely enough left to work the fields, let alone repel an invader any time soon. Demavend’s words echoed in her mind: _Nilfgaard will be Nilfgaard, the North – the North._ Gods curse Emhyr var Emreis and his rapacious appetite for war a thousand times over.

She looked to the two men seated at the table with her; perhaps the only people left in the world that she trusted unreservedly. “All right. What do we do?”

That was how she and Gascon came to be riding out, to a small village not far from Lyria Castle. They found the place easily enough thanks to their scouts’ reports; a cottage on the outskirts of the hamlet, small but in good repair, with a neatly tended vegetable garden and the best-kept hen house Meve had ever seen. She and Gascon and their small party paused in the cover of a nearby grove of trees.

“Well, Meve? How d’you wish to proceed?”

She took in the bright flowerbeds and the freshly white-washed walls. “Let’s you and I go and speak with him first.”

They approached the dwelling witnessed only by a lean ginger cat which stalked the road; the rest of the village, it seemed, had retired with the daylight. They left one of their men posted by the gate, to signal to the others in the trees in case of trouble. Meve’s heart pounded in her chest as Gascon knocked softly at the door.

Her breath caught in her throat when the youth came to greet them; she felt as though she’d seen a ghost. Villem had favoured his mother in every way – she’d never seen much of his father in him. But this boy was the spitting image of Reginald: his auburn hair, his light blue eyes. She doubted anyone who had ever seen the late king could fail to see the resemblance. She was glad that Gascon broke the silence, and asked if they could come in, for words utterly failed her now.

“What’s your name, lad?” Gascon began in his easy drawl. Meve let him take the lead; he’d clearly become accustomed to such interactions. She remained silent and left her hood up.

“Aden – might I ask who ye might be, sir?” His tone was a little nervous, but his young face betrayed no fear. “And what ye might be wanting with me?”

“My name’s Gascon. And my business is simple – I’m very curious about the guests you’ve been entertaining lately.”

“Guests? I don’t know nothing about any guests, sir – I’m no one special, hardly of interest to anyone…” But his expression had become guarded.

“Funny, that,” Gascon continued, sounding almost bored, his fingers absent-mindedly caressing his knife. “For I’ve heard much about the visitors you’ve had in th’ last weeks…I should hate to have to jog your memory.”

“No,” the boy continued stubbornly, though Meve could hear the fear that had crept into his voice. “I’m sure ye must be mistaken, sir. I know not o’ what ye speak.”

To see that bluster – that very same bluster that had once been both dear and infuriating to her – finally bolstered Meve to action. Quietly, she pushed back her hood. The action drew the lad’s attention at once; he made a sound halfway between a gasp and a choke.

“D’you know who I am?” she said softly.

Aden nodded. “Yes – m’lady.” He staggered slightly, as though unsure whether to bow or fall to his knees. In the end, he bobbed his head awkwardly.

“You live here alone, Aden?”

“Yes, Your ‘ighness. ‘Twas me and me ma, but…I lost her two winters ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” She took a step towards him. “What of your father?”

“I – I never knew him. M’lady.” Though his expression was still wary, he began to look less afraid.

“Did your mother tell you nothing of him?”

He hesitated. “Only…only that he was a great man. A noble one.” But he looked away, and Meve suspected that he did know exactly who his father had been. “Beggin’ your pardon, but why…why have you come here?”

“I’m afraid I must repeat th’ question – we must speak with you about these men who’ve been coming to see you.” She folded her arms, her tone firm but not unkind.

Aden hung his head. “Yes, Yer Majesty.”

And so the lad told them about the two men who’d called on him – at first, seemingly by chance, just two merchants, stopping by his cottage and asking if he had any food or drink that they might buy off him. They had noted his resemblance to the old king as they left, having paid a very generous price for the cheese and beer he’d given them. He’d been astonished when they had come past again, a few weeks later – this time, it seemed, especially to speak with him. At length they had spoken to him – his birth, they said, surely marked him for higher things than the common man. With royal blood in his veins, they said, he wasn’t born to follow a plough. Why, he had friends – friends he had never known about, friends in high places, who would be glad to help him better himself. They had always spoken in such vague terms, he was never sure quite what they meant, but he had been flattered by their interest, and humbled by their concern for his position in life.

Gascon looked highly sceptical at the end of this recount. “Truly, you believed a pair of merchants had just happened to stumble across th’ old king’s last living son in this backwater, and fell over themselves with concern for your fate out o’ th’ goodness o’ their hearts? D’you truly wish us to believe you had no notion they were Nilfgaardians?”

Aden’s eyes became as wide as saucers. “Nilfgaardians? No, surely not, sir! They were Rivians, I was sure of it.”

Gascon’s eyebrow remained raised. “And no doubt you had no idea that th’ fine plans they were making for you amounted to treason?”

“T-treason?” he stammered. “No – no, I would never, I swear –” Now he fell to his knees before Meve. “Please, Your Majesty – I’ve only ever meant to be a loyal subject, ye must believe me!”

She sighed. “Calm yourself, Aden. I believe you. But that alters not the fact that you have gotten yourself caught in a very dangerous web, no matter how unwittingly. D’you understand me?”

The boy nodded. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, truly – I’ve only ever wanted to serve ye. I wished to don yer colours and march with ye in th’ last war, but…Ma begged me to stay with ‘er. But if I ever ‘ad the chance again, know that I would fight for ye.” His eyes shone with earnestness, and Meve felt a pang in her breast – he was so terribly young.

“I am grateful for your loyalty,” was all she said in response, her voice quiet. “Come, get to your feet, Aden. I must go and have a word with Gascon – wait here.”

Meve and Gascon retreated to the cover of the trees once more, their men keeping a close watch on the little cottage – though Meve did not truly believe the boy would attempt to flee.

“What are your thoughts?” she asked him, her gaze fixed on the surrounding hills and dales.

“I’m not sure you’ll like them.”

“I would hear them anyway.”

He sighed. “Well…I think th’ simplest solution is obvious.”

“To kill him, you mean?” The words left a bitter taste in her mouth, even though the very same thought had occurred to her. “Execute him for a crime he has not yet committed?”

“I’ll admit, he’s not done anything – yet. Perhaps I even believe him when he says he didn’t understand what they meant for him. But you can’t convince me he wouldn’t have danced along merrily enough to their tune, realising only after it was too late. Besides, his intentions aren’t what worry me. Meve, you and I know th’ Blackclads would take him by force if he weren’t willing – and then find a way to bend him to their will.”

“There are alternatives,” she said, her mind racing, knowing full well their other options were limited, and none of them without cost.

“True – we can take him ourselves, find him a nice cosy cell in th’ dungeons, safe from th’ reach of Nilfgaard. And then what? Keep him there, miserable and alone until th’ danger becomes too great, and we kill him anyway? Or just let th’ resentment breed until he decides he’s had enough of being your loyal subject and leads a coup of his own?”

She raised her chin. “So we must be either his murderers or his jailers, then?”

Gascon said nothing, but held her gaze.

There must be another way. There _had_ to be. Desperately, she grasped for a solution that would allow her to keep her conscience clean – and her kingdom safe.

“What if – what if we take him back with us, but not as a prisoner?” she said slowly. “He said he wished to serve me – he may do so. And we can keep an eye on him that way.”

Gascon exhaled heavily and ran a hand through his hair. “A damned close eye on him, it’d have to be. I don’t imagine even his living in th’ castle or a garrison would deter them from trying again. Day and night, we’d have to have him watched – it’d be a risk, Meve.” His voice softened. “I know – I know you don’t wish to spill blood without due cause. But what if it’s all an act? What if he truly is a conniving little viper who’ll turn on you next chance he gets?”

Meve thought back to the boy, pleading at her feet. Perhaps he did not resemble his brother much, but there was something in the youthful uncertainty in his eyes that made her think of Reginald’s other son – the one who lay beside him in the crypt of Rivia Castle – and her eyes stung with tears.

“I cannot let fear rule me, Gascon. I know it’s a risk – a risk we cannot possibly calculate. But even so, I would sleep better knowing that I had done what was just, than with his blood on my hands.”

“I knew that was what you’d say,” he grumbled. “All right, we’d best go and see if he’s as willing to don your colours as he claims – otherwise it’s back to Plan B.”

Fortunately, the lad was willing – especially after Gascon told him in a brief aside just how lucky he was to have a merciful queen. It was not long after nightfall that the party found themselves back on the road to Lyria Castle. She in Gascon rode in silence, for a time, each consumed by their thoughts. When she looked over at him, she saw he looked deeply troubled.

She sighed. “I know you think I’ve acted rashly, Gascon.”

He met her gaze. “It’s not that, Meve. It’s not that at all. Honestly – it did make me feel a little sick, th’ thought of having that boy killed in cold blood. For all that we can’t be sure he’s telling th’ truth…neither can I truly believe he’s guilty of anything worse than foolishness.”

She found, improbably, a smile making its way to her lips. “What’s this now, Gascon? I thought innocents were ‘mythical creatures’ – that murder was always called for?”

He huffed. “All right, all right, throw my words back in my face. Seems to me I’ve been spendin’ too much time with you and Reynard – all that honour and virtue is rubbing off on me.” He pulled a face. “Perhaps there may just be a very few innocents out there – who might in some cases be deserving of mercy.”

She nudged him. “My, my – th’ notorious Duke of Dogs is going soft, I see.”

His expression sobered. “I only hope that we don’t live to regret it. Though I suppose,” he said, brightening a little, “as long we keep him on a short leash, we can always change our minds.”

Meve was very glad to find Reynard still awake and waiting up for her when she returned; she’d missed his counsel immensely. She sat beside him and recounted what had happened, and what she had done.

“D’you think I did right?”

He was quiet for a long time. “I’ve never envied you th’ decisions you must make,” he said finally. “Truly, Meve – th’ task of being forced to choose on matters such as another’s life or death, or th’ fate of our kingdoms, is not one I would relish. But you’ve never once shied away from your duty – time and time again, though I’ve seen what it costs you – you always strive to do what is right. If you wish me to be honest, then I’ll say that I don’t know what th’ right course of action is. Of course, sparing him is not without risk – but how can we weigh the life of one against the life of many? If it makes you feel better, my love – I would have done th’ same.”

“It does.”

He gave her a small smile. “I’m sorry I was not there – to give you my advice when it mattered.”

She put her arms around him. “I’m glad you were here with th’ girls – in truth, the very thought that th’ Blackclads have been prowling through our kingdom makes me more uneasy than I’d care to admit. Besides – I found I could hear your voice quite clearly in my mind – I knew how you would have advised me.”

He pulled her in close and gave her a very long, very tender kiss – not the kind that made her heart race, but one that told her just how loved and cherished she was – and she felt the weight lift off her shoulders a little, the tightness in her chest ease slightly. She often wondered how she had managed before, without the comfort of his love. She’d always had the strength to stand tall in the face of adversity, the courage to face what must be faced. But to know there was one person for whom she did not always have to be strong; to know that there was one person with whom she could be weak and scared and filled with doubt and fear – that made a world of difference that she had never even dreamed of. She only hoped that his faith in her would continue to be justified.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point, I'll admit to deliberately keeping timelines a bit vague...mostly because I know I'm bound to stuff them up at some point, so I try and give myself as much wriggle room as possible. But this chapter (hopefully) kicks off in the summer of 1271 (which should make the twins about eighteen months old, by my reckoning).
> 
> ETA: oh look I done fucked up my timelines already, I think I meant the twins should be two and a half by this point...I skipped a year in my mind somewhere...whoops...

With the warm, sweet-smelling breeze blowing in her face, and the gentle buzz of bees and birdsong the only sound that could be heard, Meve rather felt that she could almost forget the troubles of the last few months – troubles that were increasingly close to home.

It had been a long, bitter winter for both kingdoms, but the spring had brought little relief as desperation and discontent had boiled over into a series of riots and uprisings as the people vented their anger against the recent influx of non-humans who had come to the twin kingdoms in search of a better life under Meve’s more lenient rule. She and Reynard had been spent the last few months quashing the unrest with greater and greater force, compelled to make an increasingly harsh example of those who defied the new reforms. This was far from the greatest of their worries, however: the news of the assassinations of Demavend and then Foltest had troubled them both greatly and caused them both many sleepless nights. For whatever rumours might circulate about witchers and sorceresses, it was quite clear to them both that the party who stood most to benefit from the chaos in the north was their enemy across the Yaruga – and it seemed inevitable, that sooner or later, they would seize the opportunity to strike.

When summer had finally come round, Meve had decided something must be done. She’d seen how the frown lines on Reynard’s brow had deepened, felt her own exhaustion after weeks on the road and the return of her nightmares of finding a Nilfgaardian rope around her neck; they needed a break, desperately. So she’d put her foot down, and dragged her husband, their daughters and the barest minimum of servants and guards required off to Reynard’s estates. To take a week away from the demands of ruling was both hardly long enough and almost too much to ask in such uncertain times, but for the sake of her family and her own sanity, Meve had insisted. And as they enjoyed another day of peace and quiet, indulging in the simple pleasure of staying in bed all morning, whilst Sybella and Odette were thoroughly spoilt by the ancient entity known only as ‘Cook’, who’d been there since Reynard was a boy – she knew she had made the right decision.

The afternoon found Meve seated in the shade of her favourite tree with her legs dangling in the cool, clear water of the stream. Reynard was stretched out on a rug nearby, telling the girls a story. She thought they were probably still too young to understand most of it, which was probably just as well; the version of _The Three Bears_ she recalled had not involved any battles, yet Reynard was describing one in excruciating detail down to the direction of the wind and the marshiness of the terrain. They didn’t seem to mind, though – they appeared quite content listening to their father’s voice, and Meve herself rather felt like closing her eyes and drifting off as Reynard explained the exact position of each company of infantry in a low and soothing tone – though where the bears had gone, she wasn’t sure.

She must’ve fallen asleep, but woke when she heard light footsteps approaching. Blinking, she sat up and turned, a smile instantly making its way onto her face when she saw who it was.

“Gascon!” she cried, getting to her feet and embracing him. He’d been away more often than not the last few months, rushing to extend his network across as many of the other kingdoms as he could as events had begun to take a turn for the worse. “I didn’t think you’d get my letter in time to make it here…”

“Oh, you know me, Meve – never could say no to an opportunity to take it easy for a change,” he grinned. But she saw the look in his eyes and knew at once that whatever it was that had brought him here, it would spell the end of their brief idyll away from their troubles.

“What is it? What’s happened?”

He sighed. “That obvious, is it?”

“I’m afraid so.”

He paused, and suddenly, she knew what he was going to say before the words came out of his mouth. “They’re coming, Meve. No doubt about it now.”

“How long?” was all she could manage in reply.

He ran a hand through his hair. “Two, maybe three months.”

She looked over at Reynard and their daughters, all three of them now asleep in the shade, and swallowed hard. It was what she’d always wanted for him: peace, happiness and a family; she’d hoped their children would have the chance to grow up without the spectre of war looming over them. But she’d felt in her heart for some time now that it was not to be – it had always seemed too good to be true.

“I’m sorry, Meve,” she heard Gascon say softly behind her.

“Don’t be,” she said quietly. “It’s thanks to you we’ll have th’ chance to prepare, at least.” She raised her chin and squared her shoulders. “Come on – there’s no time to waste. Let’s rouse our general, and send his little troops to bed.”

The three of them were soon gathered in the library; Gascon standing by the window, Reynard seated at the table, poring over the maps and reports Gascon had brought with him, and Meve pacing restlessly about the room.

“Well?” she asked, when she could bear the silence no longer. “What do we do?”

Reynard grimaced. “I’m afraid little has changed since th’ last war, so far as th’ strength of our position to repel th’ invasion goes –”

Meve could not hold back a bitter laugh. “That’s putting it rather generously I think, Reynard dear. We’re worse off than we were then, there’s no point denying it – and their strength –” She faltered. “Their strength has only increased.”

He nodded grimly in acknowledgment. “Nevertheless, th’ point stands – we will fare no better than we would have then if we endeavour to meet them in open battle; it is a certainty that we will suffer a resounding and devastating defeat if we attempt it.”

“But what else can we do? You know I cannot – will not – yield to them. Not now. Not ever.”

He gave her a small smile. “I know better than to even suggest it, my love. But I don’t think that our options are limited to defeat or surrender.” He glanced at Gascon, who rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I know that th’ circumstances under which we were forced to conduct our campaign in th’ last war were far from ideal, however – the tactics we employed granted us victories where traditional warfare never could have. We learned much; I think with th’ advantage of planning this time, we may yet have a chance to drive th’ Blackclads back once more.”

Meve frowned. “I see the wisdom in what you say…but in th’ last war we were little more than fugitives, on th’ run, already driven from our castles and lands – I don’t see how we can hope to employ the same strategies defensively.”

Gascon and Reynard exchanged a glance, and suddenly understanding dawned on her.

“Oh no – no, Reynard, you can’t be suggesting that we just _let them in_ – that we simply take flight and save ourselves, and leave our people at their mercy?”

“D’you think I like th’ idea any more than you do? Please, if either of you has a better plan, I’d love to hear it; for I do not.”

“Meve,” Gascon broke in. “I know how highly you value your honour, and it does you credit. But Nilfgaard – Nilfgaard does not fight with high-minded principles. They wage war with nothing but cold, calculated strategy, and if we do not do th’ same, we have no hope of standing against them.”

“Are you trying to say we should try to be more like those whoresons?” spat Meve in disgust. “Gods, Gascon, I’d rather die –”

“And likely you will,” he retorted flatly, “if you insist on playing by rules they don’t trouble themselves with. Would you rather die in a losing battle, your honour intact? Or live to fight another day, and have a sporting chance of actually defendin’ your kingdom?”

She had no reply to that. With a sigh, she sat down heavily at the table with Reynard. “All right. Tell me then, Reynard, Gascon – honour be damned, how do we win this war?”

An unmistakable shadow fell over the land over the next few months. The sudden disappearance of the queen’s dubious favourite, the Duke of Scala, was a scandal that provided the court with some relief from the constant stream of alarming news that poured in, as they revelled in gossiping over how he’d proved to be the ungrateful rogue they’d always supposed him to be. Even this diversion, however, was short-lived when the news came that Nilfgaard had crossed the Yaruga once more. They looked to their queen with only mildly rattled confidence; after all, she had proven herself amply against the Imperial forces once already and earned the title of ‘Saviour of the North’. Yet they watched with growing dread as the Blackclads crossed the border, and the Lyrian army suffered defeat after defeat. The Imperial attacks had been almost tentative at first but quickly grew bolder as they realised _Gvaedin_ seemed to have lost her teeth. It went unnoticed, however, that the Lyrian losses in these engagements were always very minimal, and their retreats always extremely timely – almost as if they had been planned that way.

Though their progress was much slowed by the continual, if mostly ineffectual, Lyrian opposition, Nilfgaard continued their inexorable march towards the capital; the day finally came when scouts announced their forces had been sighted a scant day’s ride from the castle.

Meve would never call herself particularly devout; she’d seen too much of the world – too much suffering and senseless greed, to place _too_ much trust in the gods. And yet, she’d been sitting in the chapel of Rivia castle for hours now – though she was more consumed by thought than prayer. Her daughters were already gone, spirited away in secret the night before. Reynard was out there somewhere on the field, leading the Lyrian army’s last stand – for now, at least – against the Blackclads, and would very soon be leading its retreat, likely the most chaotic and disorganised-looking retreat he’d ever commanded. It was, however, meticulously planned down to the very last detail, in an attempt to get the bulk of their force to safety and eventually regroup, in the hope that to the Nilfgaardians, it would appear as though they were simply deserting en masse. The fact that she was stuck here in the castle, and not out on the field with Reynard and her troops, where she should be, made her want to scream in frustration. But Gascon would brook no opposition to his plan.

“Absolutely not, Meve,” he’d said, looking as serious as she’d ever seen him. “And before you bite my head off, hear me out. You’re just too damn recognisable. I’ve some confidence at least that Reynard will be able to get away in th’ confusion, but you? With your golden hair and your golden armour – not to mention th’ big old scar on your face? If th’ Blackclads know you’re ont’ field, they won’t risk letting you get away again; they won’t rest until they see you dead or have you in chains. So you stay here.”

As much as she was loath to admit it, she knew he was right. They’d hardly a leg to stand on, in this battle, and survival was the only victory they could hope for. So she sat and waited, alone, and tried not to let the feelings of anger and helplessness overwhelm her. Finally, as the sun began to set through the stained-glass windows, and just as she thought she might truly go mad, a voice called to her softly.

“My lady? There are tidings of the battle.”

Meve turned to her maid. “Yes, Flora?”

“A defeat, I’m sorry to say, m’lady. The Blackclads have seen our forces well and truly scattered. They’re expected to march on th’ city tomorrow.”

She nodded. “And –”

The girl looked down. “No news of th’ Count, m’lady. I’m so sorry.”

Meve had steeled herself; this was the news she had expected, after all. But the words still felt like a blow. _All part of the plan_ , she told herself. But how she wished they hadn’t planned it like this. She drew a deep breath in. “Don’t fret, my girl. Do you remember what we must do now?”

Flora nodded.

“Then we’ve no time to waste.”

This was far from the first time that Gascon had required Meve to put her faith in him blindly, but certainly he had tested her trust in him more on this occasion than ever before. They’d received only the barest of communications from him since he’d disappeared to play his part in their plans, and the details he had given her about her escape had been sparing indeed. Still, he had yet to fail her, and she could think of no one she’d rather have plan her daring attempt to flee the castle unnoticed by as many as possible. So when he had sent her instructions to make her way in secret to a rather notorious brothel in the city, she had raised her eyebrows but accepted it without question. In truth, her curiosity was at least a distraction from the restlessness that hummed in her veins like a fever. And once she’d smuggled out of the castle and through the city by her stout-hearted maid, Meve found she could still enjoy the novelty of seeing the inside of such an establishment for the first time.

“This is certainly quite the place you have here,” she said, gazing at her luxurious surroundings with great interest; there were tapestries and furnishings here that would not look at all out of place in her castle.

“ _The Pearl’_ s always been a very fine house, Your Majesty,” said the dark-haired young landlady with an air of great pride. “Why, they say even th’ King himself –” she broke off hastily on seeing Meve’s raised eyebrows. “But, uh, that was long before my time here, of course.”

“Yes, I imagine it must have been,” said Meve, hiding her amusement. “Forgive me, but you do seem rather young to be running such a business.”

Danica gave her a thoughtful look. “I suppose I am. I began working here a few years ago, just one o’ th’ girls. Th’ previous owner took a shine to me.” She pressed her lips together in a thin line. “Th’ old sod promised to leave me this property in his will in exchange for me not putting up a fuss about it. Sadly for him…he perished not long after.”

Meve blinked. “How unfortunate.”

“Quite. Since I took th’ place over though, I’ve done my best to look after th’ other lasses, to keep ‘em all safe and let ‘em earn their livin’ in peace.” She turned back to the trunk she was rummaging through and held aloft a couple of handsome wigs. “Now, what colour hair would you like to have, my lady? Red or brown?”

The feeling of trepidation returned to her after she’d donned her disguise, her hair covered by the glossy brunette wig and her scar concealed by Danica’s skilful application of powder and paint, and they descended to the public rooms of the brothel. If Meve had expected the city’s imminent capture to cast a pall over _The Pearl_ , or dampen the spirits of its patrons, she would’ve been sorely mistaken. If anything, the crowd swelled and grew more boisterous and exuberant as the night wore on.

Meve watched them with faint disbelief. “How can they carry on, drinking and laughing like this?” she wondered aloud. “Surely they must know what will happen tomorrow.”

Danica smiled wryly. “I’ve found there are two types of people in th’ world, Majesty,” she said in an undertone. “Those who must do something when faced with such times – whether ‘tis to fight or flee – and those who will happily watch th’ world burn, so long as they can drown their sorrows at th’ same time.”

The relief when she felt an arm around her waist and a familiar voice murmur in her ear, “Hey ho, lovely lady”, was inexpressible. Her happiness when she spun around to see Gascon grinning at her was such that she kissed him full on the mouth.

“Damn, if I knew that was th’ kind of greeting I’d get after running away, I’d’ve done it much sooner,” he teased.

It was just as well she’d recognised his voice, for his hood was up and he’d cropped his hair short once more. “I’m not sure about th’ beard, to be honest,” she said doubtfully, touching his cheek.

He pulled a face. “Me neither – it’s damned itchy, I can’t wait to get rid of it. But I thought it couldn’t hurt whilst I was travelling incognito.”

“Took your bloody time,” muttered Danica. But Meve noted she was not the only one who looked pleased to see Meve; _The Pearl’s_ landlady appeared to be barely containing her smile.

“I’m happy to see you too, Dani,” he replied amicably, easily looping his free arm around her waist. “Gods, how did I get to be th’ lucky bastard with th’ two loveliest women here hangin’ off my arms?”

“As much as I’d love to linger here and enjoy this little reunion,” said Meve, raising an eyebrow, “I think I’d prefer to catch up without the Blackclads breathing down our necks.”

“Hmm, I can’t fault your reasoning there, Mevie. I must beg your indulgence a little longer, though – grant me…ooh, about another quarter of an hour, I’d say. Then we’ll be off, I promise.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he gently laid a finger on her lips. “I know patience isn’t your strong point, darlin’. But please just believe me when I say there was a _considerable_ amount of plannin’ that went into tonight – and I’d hate to cock it all up at th’ last minute.”

With a sigh, she nodded and did her best to continue to pretend to make merry with Gascon and Danica, even as her heart pounded and her hands grew damp with sweat. Even though it felt as though the wait would go on forever, eventually a disturbance could be heard out on the street. A flashily dressed young man near the door poked his head out to investigate, and quickly announced to the rest of the room in a gleeful tone: “A fight!”

Meve turned swiftly to Gascon, who was grinning at her.

“Right on time – that’s our cue to make a discreet exit,” he spoke in a low voice into her ear as the rest of the crowd cheered and spilled out into the street to see the spectacle. “All right Dani, which way?”

The young woman led them quickly to the back door, cautiously peering out into the alley before opening it fully. “Coast looks clear,” she whispered, as she let them pass her before following them out into the night.

“Hey now,” Gascon said, frowning. “I never said anythin’ about needin’ to come with us –”

“D’you really think you know these streets better than me, Sir Spy? Trust me, you’ll be glad of my help,” she replied archly, with a look that quickly quashed any further objections Gascon might have had.

They made their way quickly and silently through the dark twists and turns of the old city, granting Meve a view of her capital she had never before beheld. Despite the lateness of the hour, they passed many glowing windows and doorways; bustling taverns, even a playhouse or two – ordinary folk doing their best to enjoy their lives, and forget, for tonight at least, the enemy that stood at their gates. It made her heart ache, to know that she was leaving them to their fate; that to stay and defend them as she desperately wished to would only condemn them all. Instead, she let it strengthen her resolve – this would not be in vain. She would return as soon as she could, and once more become the queen they deserved.

They made good progress through the maze-like warren of the old town’s streets, thanks to Gascon’s meticulous planning, and Danica’s intimate knowledge of every twist and turn of the route. Every time they were required to turn on to a larger, more populated street, some sort of disturbance always seemed to materialise; a brawl, a street-performer, even on one occasion, an escaped dog tearing down the street, each effectively drawing the attention of every possible onlooker away from the fugitive queen and her companions.

Gascon looked exceptionally pleased with himself. “All goin’ off like clockwork,” he said, throwing an arm around Meve’s shoulders. “We’re almost there now.”

They made it to the rendezvous point at the city’s eastern gate just after midnight, quite unobserved by any guards – who had clearly decided that the city had bigger problems that night than its inhabitants’ comings and goings. Gascon’s men, however, were being beleaguered by a gang of street children who seemed intent on making off with the horses – the sight of them attempting to fend off the ragged little bunch without excessive force might’ve proved amusing to Meve under other circumstances, especially seeing as the children seemed to have no such qualms, kicking and biting with impunity.

Gascon swore. “Oi, knock it off, you little swine,” he snarled. “Here, I’ve got plenty o’ gold, have that instead and bugger off, alright?”

“Or mebbe we take yer gold an’ yer ‘orses!” chirped their leader defiantly, apparently undaunted.

Danica then let forth a stream of gutter cant that was largely unintelligible to Meve, though she was reasonably sure that most of it was exceptionally foul. Whatever it was certainly had the desired effect, however, as the little thieves promptly accepted Gascon’s proffered purse and scarpered, apparently chastened.

“Damn, I’d never even heard half those words before,” said Gascon, looking thoroughly impressed. “I’ll have to try and remember ‘em for special occasions.”

“Apologies, Your Majesty,” said Danica, her cheeks a little flushed with embarrassment. “I grew up on these streets too – I didn’t think they’d listen to anything else.”

“No need for apologies – I’m hardly in a position to be delicate tonight,” said Meve dryly. “I’m very grateful for your aid – I know well that all you’ve done for us is not without risk.”

“Aye, cheers, Dani,” said Gascon, kissing her on the cheek. “I owe you more than ever, now.”

“Well, call back in at _The Pearl_ once you’re done saving th’ kingdom and we’ll call it even,” she said with a smile. “We’ve missed you.”

“I think those are terms I can agree to. Will you be alright getting back on your own?” he said, and Meve noted his faint look of concern.

“I’ll be fine.” She gave him a playful shove. “I can look after myself. May th’ gods be with you, Your Majesty,” she said, addressing Meve once more. “Know that we’ll all be praying for your victory over those Blackclad bastards.” And with that, she slipped off, disappearing quickly back through the city gates.

“All right, Meve,” said Gascon, handing her a bundle of travelling clothes and a sword. The relief she felt as her hand closed around the hilt was incredible. “Ready to ride for your life?”

Where exactly they were headed to now was another detail that Gascon had not seen fit to enlighten her with. But it did not take them long to leave the city and its surrounding villages behind, as he set such a punishing pace that even as consummate a horsewoman as Meve found it gruelling. Before long, they were entering a forest so thick with trees that only occasional splashes of moonlight found their way through the dense canopy to light their way. Now they finally slowed a little, making their way through the close-set trunks, far from any path or trail, the cracking of twigs under their horses’ hooves the only sound that reached their ears. They were only a small party – herself, Gascon, and three men, who she recognised as Strays who’d fought for her in the last war – and they rode in silence, none daring to fall too far behind the rest of the group.

They had two nights of riding ahead of them, Gascon told her as they took a brief rest to allow their horses to recover, and take a bite of bread themselves. Meve forced herself to eat a few mouthfuls, though her stomach was still tightly knotted with tension. The fear that gripped her kept her alert, at least, as they resumed their journey and rode until the break of dawn. Meve felt as though she’d barely laid her head down to rest when Gascon was shaking her awake again, though from the length of the shadows she knew she must have slept some hours. It was so much harder to get back on her horse now, with legs that ached from their previous night’s riding, and an exhaustion that refused to budge even after she splashed freezing water from a stream over her face. But she forced herself onto her mount, gritting her teeth and thinking only of how close she was now to the relative safety of the camp that awaited her.

Gascon had certainly been thorough in planning a route that kept them off the path of any other travellers – perhaps a little too thorough. As they rode through the darkest part of the night, Meve began to feel the hair stand up on the back of her neck. Though they’d seen neither hide nor hair of any other living creature since the day before, she began to have the dreadful feeling that they were not alone. Every creak of the boughs above them, every snap of a branch underfoot had them all jumping in their saddles; the distant howl of a wolf pack sent a shiver racing down her spine. The night felt endless – for a time, Meve was conscious of nothing but the steady step of her horse, with no thought in her mind other than to stay awake and remain in her saddle.

But even the darkest night must give way to dawn eventually. As the soft red light began to greet them, Meve realised that the trees were beginning to thin around them – they were finally out of the woods. She shut her eyes for a moment, briefly enjoying the fresh cool breeze on her face; she began to feel the glimmer of hope shining once more through the fog of her exhaustion. When she opened her eyes, she could sense renewed determination in their party, their journey’s end in sight. By the time the sun had risen, she could just make out the structures of the camp in the distance before them. Here it was, their best hope in the battle to save their country; the last bastion of the Lyrian and Rivian forces against the black tide that was sweeping the north.

Meve dismounted as soon as they were safely within the confines of the camp, incredibly grateful to have her feet on solid ground once more, even as her legs cramped in protest after two long nights on horseback. Gascon and the men quickly followed suit, with groans of relief as they stretched their aching muscles. They were quickly approached and welcomed by several soldiers, all greeting Meve with very proper bows. She nodded tiredly in acknowledgement, just barely gathering the strength for a regal smile, as Gascon took a quick report from those that had gathered by them.

“Your girls are here safe,” he said gently after they had dispersed back to their duties, laying a hand on her shoulder. “D’you want to go see them?”

The news went some way to easing the weight of worry that pressed on her heart. “Yes…in a minute.” She kept her eyes firmly fixed on the horse as she gently stroked its neck. “But…has there been any word…?”

He hesitated. “Not yet, Meve. But truly, I wouldn’t have expected him to beat us here by much. I’m sure he can’t be too far off, now.”

Meve simply nodded; neither dared voice the dread that they both felt. It was beginning to press in on her now – she’d been able to keep her thoughts firmly away from the man she loved since her flight from the castle, excepting those brief moments in which she’d prayed for his safety. But now that her journey was over, her fear demanded to be felt, threatening to overwhelm her in her weary state.

The appearance of an old friend she hadn’t seen for some time provided a welcome distraction. The leap her heart gave when she saw a streak of white and yellow fur bounding towards her allowed her to push away the tears stinging her eyes once more.

“Knickers!” she exclaimed, dropping to the ground to throw her arms around the tremendously excited dog, who began to lick her face enthusiastically, his tail a mere blur as it wagged furiously.

“Wouldn’t even have dreamed of leavin’ him behind,” said Gascon, grinning broadly. “He was getting fat and lazy chasing after chickens in my barns, if you’d believe it. High time he got back on th’ march.”

It was then that she heard the sound of hoofbeats just behind them. Her heart began to beat painfully as she got to her feet again, hoping desperately that the new arrivals would be those she hoped most to see. She turned around – and there stood Reynard. Reynard, still spattered with mud and blood and dust, looking as though he’d been through hell and back, and certainly the most welcome sight she’d ever seen in her life.

They were not generally given to being demonstrative with each other in public; Reynard could never be comfortable with such a breach of protocol, and Meve herself preferred to reserve her affections for when she could bestow them without dozens of pairs of eyes eagerly observing them. But not today. Today, she couldn’t care less about what was proper, or how many people in the camp were watching as she ran towards him. His eyes lit up when he caught sight of her, a smile breaking through the fatigue on his face as he held out his arms for her. Despite how exhausted he must have been, he caught her easily as she leapt into his embrace, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him deeply. It felt like so much longer than three days since they had parted; it felt like a lifetime.

It was some time before they broke apart, smiling still, quite oblivious to the cheers and whistles echoing through the camp at their display. Meve gently pressed her forehead against his, closing her eyes and savouring the sensation of having those loving arms wrapped tightly around her once more. It seemed impossible that she could feel so much happiness and contentment right now; after all they had been through, to have once more been forced from their home, once more become a queen on the run instead of on her throne, once more have the invader blazing a path of destruction through her beloved kingdoms. But despite all of that, she was here, she was alive, and those dearest to her were safe and well. They might have lost the battle, but they had gained the chance to fight another day. And now – they had a war to win.

_End Part One_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and that brings us (hopefully) to the halfway point of the story! Thank you so much to everyone who's joined me on the journey so far, every comment and kudos has meant the world to me. This story was the first thing I started working on almost before I'd even finished the game, and I never even thought that anyone would be interested in what I thought would happen next :) I will probably take another short break from working on this story to spend some time on other ideas (namely, the OT3 fic I keep teasing on Tumblr which I am absolutely desperate to finish) and allow the ideas for Part Two to cook a little longer (though I have already written at least part of most of the next six chapters!). 
> 
> The next half of the story will be, unsurprisingly, a little darker than the first half, though it's my intention to match the tone of the game in terms of the level of violence etc. and the extent to which it's described. I will probably update the tags too, but mostly because I think I could tag this story better, not because I'm planning on any overtly shocking/graphic plot twists. 
> 
> Thanks again everyone who has taken the time to share their thoughts on this story so far, and hope to see you all again soon for the next chapter! And to my fellow Reynard stans, apologies for his lack of spotlight in the last couple of chapters - I can promise chapter 7 we'll be back to his POV ❤️


	7. Chapter 7

_Part Two_

Reynard Odo was a seasoned veteran of many campaigns. He could recall the rather adventurous crusades led by King Reginald, characterised by frequent breaks for hunting and merriment, and served on the rather less droll and infinitely more efficient ventures led by his queen; he had many fond memories from his years on the march, and many more still which he’d rather forget. He’d made camp in sweet summer meadows, snowy mountain peaks and treacherous bog-filled forests, but if asked, he would tell you, that despite the rather unenviable circumstances that had led them here, his situation in the secret camp of the Lyrian and Rivian forces was the best he’d ever found himself in – for, for the first time, he enjoyed the unparalleled delight of sharing his bed with the woman he loved every night. Waking up next to his wife every morning was a small pleasure he never failed to relish; before his marriage, he’d never been one to linger long in bed after waking, but now he always took the time to enjoy Meve’s soft, warm presence in the bed beside him before rising. 

Not this morning, however. Meve had dragged herself out of bed, grumbling faintly, long before the dawn; she was to lead a surprise attack on the closest Nilfgaardian garrison that morning, much like the one Reynard himself had carried out with reasonable success two days before, when it had been his turn to strike at their foe. So it was from a rather colder, emptier bed than usual that he emerged from as the sun rose, ready to spend another day doing his damnedest to work out how the hell they were supposed to win this impossible war.

They could not have hoped to conceal their entire army in one camp, of course; even if they had, it would have been impossible to manoeuvre a force of that size with the speed and secrecy on which their success depended. So when they’d taken flight after the last battle, the Lyrian army had dispersed in several directions, with only a fraction of its soldiers riding with Reynard to the main encampment. The rest had gone to form many small units scattered throughout the kingdom, with orders to conceal themselves and await the day their queen could command them again. Communication between the camps posed too great a risk of interception, so by necessity Reynard had been required to leave some of his best captains and most loyal soldiers behind, those who could be trusted to act independently in their covert operations until they received further instructions. This had the unfortunate consequence of depriving them of some of their most experienced and reliable troops, but it couldn’t be helped. That wasn’t to say that those who remained were without merit – no one advanced under Reynard’s command without it – but he did feel that he was required to take a more hands-on role in the day-to-day running of the camp than he had in some time.

As he made his way through the camp his attention was drawn to a knot of soldiers whose rowdiness was entirely at odds with the earliness of the hour. His frown deepened when he saw that Aden was among them. He sighed inwardly. The lad had become the albatross around his neck, there was no denying it. Whilst he was earnest and eager to please, he had a talent for falling into bad company and worse habits, and Reynard felt that hardly a day went by that he was not required to fish him out of some shady situation and set him straight once more. This was not a problem he could share with Meve, either. When she had asked him to take the boy on under his command – and the responsibility of having him closely guarded and watched – he’d agreed without a second thought; it had for so long been second nature to him to serve her in any way he could. That was not to say that he regretted doing so in this case, but it had become obvious to him that Meve had a soft spot for Aden, and he could well guess the reason. But the subject of Villem was still closed to him even now, and he knew better than to attempt to broach it. He could only hope that in time, she would be able to share her grief with him – and that in the meantime, he could find a way to rein in the unruly royal bastard.

“Morning, Reynard,” said Gascon as he entered the command tent, from behind a stack of papers.

Reynard couldn’t help smiling to himself in amusement. Not so long on ago, on their last campaign, it had been Gascon who was perpetually the last to arrive at their daily meetings, ever uninterested in poring over the endless detailed reports they obtained from their scouts and spies. How things had changed.

“What’s th’ latest news?”

Gascon snorted. “No glad tidings, I’m afraid. Th’ Blackclads continue to make themselves comfortable in th’ capitals; barracks continue to spring up like mushrooms ‘cross the land. They’re digging their heels in deep this time, no mistake.”

“And th’ siege?”

“Rivia Castle continues to hold strong; Nilfgaard seems disinclined to speed things up at this stage – looks like they still intend to starve them out.”

He nodded. That was something, at least. They had determined to avoid letting the castle fall into enemy hands again if they could help it – it would be nigh on impossible to take it back, now that the one little chink in its armour they had so ably exploited in the last war had been dealt with. Reynard was reasonably confident that short of razing it to the ground – no mean feat, either – the enemy would not be able to take the castle before it surrendered. He’d calculated that the castle’s defenders should be able to hold for a year, maybe a little longer, with the supplies they had; he only prayed it would be long enough.

“Anything else of interest?”

“There appears to be a fairly large group of bandits operating in th’ area; I doubt their motivations are patriotic, but luckily for us, the Blackclads do present a rather juicier target than the local merchants, at present.”

“Friends of yours?”

Gascon huffed, looking mildly offended. “Hardly. A gang of boorish amateurs, at best…nowhere near as professional as th’ Strays. That being said, though…”

Reynard groaned. “Please don’t say you wish to recruit them. We have few enough experienced soldiers here as it is; already our force is well below th’ standard they should be, and the time required to train them as such is already more than I can spare…”

“Pshh, they’re bandits, Reynard, hardly your scythe-wielding peasants; they’ll already know how to fight, to start with –”

He raised an eyebrow. “I thought you just called them amateurs.”

Gascon waived this protest away. “Compared to me and my lads, obviously; still a damn sight better than your average farmer, I’ve no doubt. They’ll already have their own weapons – and at the very least, it goes without sayin’, they’ll be better at stealing food than your men are.”

Reynard ignored the jab about the stealing; the less than honourable way they were forced to obtain their victuals at times remained a sore spot. “Then, say we _do_ wish to recruit them – which I’m not, mind – how d’you propose to sway them to our cause? We can’t exactly offer them piles of coin, as you may have noticed.”

“You can leave th’ persuading to me,” said Gascon, with a wicked smile. “Besides, we can offer them amnesty, which is no small thing to a bandit who’s wanted in every province in the country, let me tell you.”

“ _Meve_ can offer them amnesty, if she so desires – you’ll have to convince her that it’s worth th’ trouble; she may not wish to spare another pack of criminals their just deserts,” he retorted; but he knew the words were a hollow threat.

“Ha, no fear of that – you know what she’s like. She’d not turn away a pack of barghests if they promised to fight the Blackclads with her.”

Reynard knew when he was defeated; he was well aware that Meve would certainly approve Gascon’s plan immediately. He began to wonder instead where they might quarter these dubious new recruits – for he did not doubt that Gascon’s powers of persuasion would prove effective – to minimise the inevitable brawls.

His train of thought was soon interrupted; both men looked up with a start as Meve stormed into the command tent, her expression exceptionally sour.

“We arrived too late for th’ Blackclads,” she said with a scowl.

“They’d gone?” said Gascon, with a frown. “But they had no orders to move on, as far as I could tell –”

“No,” she sighed. “ _Something_ else got there before us, it seems – and whatever it was, it didn’t leave much more behind than a few gnawed limbs clad in black plate. And a veritable horde of nekkers,” she added, glaring at the streaks of thick dark blood still clinging to her armour.

Reynard could not help but think it was rather a shame. Meve had been restless of late, and he couldn’t blame her. Whilst they had pulled off some successful manoeuvres, managed to cause more than a little trouble for their foe, their victories so far had been small and largely symbolic. They were still little more than bothersome insects to the Blackclads, hardly yet worth the trouble of swatting. And though that was largely the point of their campaign so far, to bide their time and wait until they could discover how they might turn the tide against the might of the Empire once more, it was hard on them all; hard on the men, desperate to fight for their loved ones, hard on himself and Gascon, who both felt hampered and hamstrung by their limited resources, and hardest of all on the queen who felt as though she had abandoned her land and her people and betrayed their trust in her. He knew how she hated to feel so ineffectual, unable to unleash her wrath on the invaders as she longed to, and he had rather hoped that her expedition to the garrison might alleviate some of her frustration – but it seemed the lack of Blackclads to vent her anger on had only compounded it. Truth be told, Reynard felt almost sorry for the nekkers, though he had no doubt that Meve’s fury had at least brought them a swift end.

Gascon grinned. “Oh well, I’ve no doubt I’ll have better luck than you on my raid tonight, Meve. We have _excellent_ information about th’ enemy’s movements; they’ll not escape our ambush.”

“Gods, I envy you for it,” she sighed. “What I’d do to give them a taste of my sword…”

“I daresay there’ll be more than enough Blackclads to go round, if you’d care to ride with me,” he replied, brightening. “You too, Reynard – why, it’d be just like old times.”

He could see the warring emotions on Meve’s face. Even she had seen the sense in their plan to avoid all three of them riding out together when it could be avoided; their position now was too precarious, the stakes too high, to risk any more of them being captured by the enemy than was strictly necessary. But he knew well just how much it went against her grain to stay back in the camp while her men risked their lives, to allow others to go and strike at the foe in her place – and he knew it had been too long since she had felt like the queen she was.

“You should go, Meve.”

She looked up at him in surprise.

“I mean it,” he continued. “It’s always good for the men’s morale to have you ride with them – and it never hurts to remind our enemy of just who it is they stand against.” He was glad he’d suggested it when he saw her face brighten, and her chin lift with her old pride.

“And you, Reynard?” asked Gascon eagerly. “Come on, it’s been an age since th’ three of us rode out together. Time we reminded those Blackclad bastards what we’re really capable of, eh?”

He hesitated. He knew how much Meve needed the opportunity to lead her men into the fray against their enemy, and he couldn’t deny that it _would_ feel good to give the Imperials a proper show of their force, rather than the light guerrilla raids they’d limited themselves to so far. And when he thought of how he’d be spending the time otherwise – leading the rest of the troops through the same simple marching drills he’d already done with them a dozen times, or reading through the same depressing reports once again, looking for anything that might bolster their slim odds in their war…well, perhaps Meve wasn’t the only one who needed to taste a proper victory again.

“Very well.” And when he saw Meve and Gascon’s grins, he could not help but smile in return.

The moonrise found their company waiting silently at the ordained place, each of them in position with their corresponding units. The night was clear and bright, though the shadows were still dark enough to provide them with ample cover, and still enough that every sound carried easily through the air. The clatter of wagons and hoofbeats could be heard approaching; wordlessly, Reynard signalled to his men, shut his visor, and led them onto the road.

“Halt!” he roared, as the caravan came into view. “Halt, in th’ name o’ th’ Queen!”

Halt they did, the wagons and their armoured guard drawing up abruptly. Their confusion was evident, which was a relief; one always hoped that they would not be too quick to raise their crossbows.

“What’s this?” snapped their captain, bristling with impatience. “Some hedge knight who’s been living under a rock the last few months? We do not answer to your queen, Nordling. We ought to trample the lot of you, but if you will stand aside, you may consider this a warning –” He broke off mid-sentence, his expression changing to one of immense surprise as an arrow passed cleanly through one side of his neck and out the other, lodging itself neatly in a tree on the other side of the road with a dull _thunk_.

Reynard rolled his eyes. Even if he hadn’t recognised the fletching as Gascon’s handiwork, no one else would have bothered with such a dramatic shot. He did have to admire it, however grudgingly; it was a pretty bit of shooting, even if the longbow was certainly overkill when an arbalest would have done just as well at this range. Still, that was the signal – so Reynard drew his sword and led his men in the charge.

It was a manoeuvre they’d pulled off successfully many times by now, and they moved like a well-oiled machine. Distracted firstly by Reynard’s charge, then by the volley of arrows and stones slung from the surrounding wood by Gascon and his band, the enemy did not even notice the short, brutal work Meve was making of their rear-guard until she had nearly obliterated them. Reynard had long admired the discipline of the Imperial army’s units; they fought with a well-drilled rhythm and synchronicity that would be the pride of any good commander. However, such discipline could only hold for so long in the face of such an onslaught, and it was not long before the seemingly impenetrable wall of black armour began to crumble, their tidy formations quickly giving way as each man tried desperately to hold his own as his comrades fell around him.

Such an engagement took little thought on Reynard’s part; for all he might complain of feeling old, he was far from past his prime, and his years of experience meant it was second nature to deflect the increasingly wild blows levelled at him and drive his own blade home into the gaps of his foes’ black plate, allowing him to keep an eye on the rest of the fight. Meve drew his gaze, as she always did; indeed, it was hard _not_ to watch her as she wreaked havoc in her bright armour, her beautiful face contorted with anger and effort as she landed blow after deadly blow. Several of the Imperial soldiers made the fatal mistake of allowing themselves to be distracted by watching the legendary warrior queen fight – and soon paid with their lives as Gascon swung neatly down from an over-hanging tree branch and swiftly dispatched them with a few sharp thrusts of his short sword. The Blackclads fought to the last man, which was just as well – the secrecy of their camp meant taking prisoners was even more burdensome than usual. The enemy’s refusal to surrender, however, raised a suspicion in Reynard’s mind as to the nature of the caravan they had just captured, one which he rather hoped would be proved wrong.

It was Gascon who was first to draw back the canvas covering the wagons, and Reynard’s suspicion was proven correct. The pale, haggard faces of dozens of men and women blinked dazedly at them. A wave of cold, hard anger gripped his heart as he took in the heavy iron shackles, wrists and ankles rubbed raw beneath them, and the way they shivered, their filthy, ragged clothing obviously insufficient for the cold night air. It never failed to disgust him, the way Nilfgaard had built its glorious empire on the backs of miserable, mistreated slaves, worked to death then tossed aside without any regard for human life. Let them keep their golden towers – he did not care that they considered the North primitive and backwards; he would rather live and die there than enjoy any of the comforts or advances the Empire had to offer, if their cost was that of another man’s freedom and dignity.

Fortunately, this being far from the first slave caravan they had intercepted, the Lyrians were quick to free the captives from their shackles, and it did gladden him a little to see their blank looks slowly become hopeful and then relieved, as they realised who their rescuers were. The broad smile on Meve’s face lifted his heart instantly; he could not help but smile in return as the Lyrians cheered at their victory. It _did_ feel good to have landed such a blow against their enemy, however small it was. And here at least were a handful of their people they had managed to save from an appalling fate – though Reynard did not like to think of how many more would not be so lucky.

The rescued Rivians quickly fell to their knees before their queen, expressing their gratitude profusely. He watched with quiet pride as Meve helped them back up to their feet, enquiring from whence they hailed, reassuring them that they might return home as soon as they had sufficiently recovered.

One of their number shook his head fiercely. “Oh, Yer Majesty – what’s there to return to? Workin’ our fields just for th’ Blackclads to demand ‘alf our crops? Waitin’ for th’ day they decide to cart us off as slaves once more? Gods know I’m no soldier, m’lady, but I’ll gladly die for you if you’ll let me fight in your ranks.”

“Us too!” cried one of the women suddenly, her dark eyes enormous in her thin face. “Please m’lady, we’ll help in any way we can – but I beg you, give me a blade and let me taste those bastards’ blood on it.”

And Meve, true to form, moved by her subjects’ professions of loyalty and desire for revenge, immediately gave her assent for them to join her force.

“There you go, General,” she said to him as they made their way back to their camp. “Several dozen more fighting bodies to add to our ranks, all of them eager to drive th’ invaders from our land.”

He did his best to conceal his misgivings; eagerness was one thing, but it did not always make up for a lack of discipline and experience, and their current force was already much rougher and greener than he would like – this would be yet more time spent in the most basic of drills and manoeuvres. And not even the fiercest desire for vengeance could make up for the fact that the lot of them looked half-starved and thoroughly beaten already. Their supplies were not bountiful, nor easily obtained; boots, arms, tents – all in far greater demand than they could get their hands on.

But to Meve, he merely nodded. “I’ll train them to be as fine as any who’ve served under your banners, my love.” And to see her smile at him again was all the reward he needed for the pains it would take him to come good on his promise. He began to rethink the drills he had planned for the coming days – some of the more complicated manoeuvres he had planned to teach would have to wait, now. Not that he would be able to begin work with these new recruits for several days, anyway; he watched the ragged bunch, staggering more than a little as they stumbled along behind Meve’s retinue, and thought that some of them hardly looked to have the strength to impale a chicken on a pike, let alone a plate clad Nilfgaardian. They’d need food and rest first before he could even begin to train them.

Gascon rode up beside him as Meve cantered to the front of the train to speak with the scouts. “Gods help us,” he sighed. “Doubtless they’ll steal th’ rest of our supplies and then turn tail at th’ first opportunity – but cheer up,” he added, clapping Reynard on the back. “At least they’re younger than th’ last lot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week on [Tumblr](https://queenmevesknickers.tumblr.com/) I'm running an event - [Thronebreaker Valentines](https://www.tumblr.com/search/thronebreaker+valentines) \- a week to celebrate the world's most criminally underrated game. I've got lots of content to post, including seven new vignettes/mini fics. The Thronebreaker fandom is so incredibly creative and vibrant despite its small size, I'm really looking forward to seeing what other people will share for it! So definitely come and check it out :)
> 
> Otherwise, I'm continuing to crack on with this story - once I've written the scene I just came up with for chapter 11, I will have officially written at least part of every chapter that's left!


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